The Fine Print
by Remington Rand
Summary: ."Oliver had to admit to himself that if the youngest Malfoy could get the whole wizarding world's savior to fall in love with him—maybe he had changed, after all." D/H slash, Post-war, dismissing books 6/7. SEQUEL to Joint Custody. Rated M. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**::1::**

Harry had head Susan Bones had taken over her Aunt's position at the Ministry, but it didn't stop the surprise that he was certain registered on his face when he saw her. Ron had said more than that she was somewhat flighty and unorganized, and quite often looked ruffled. The strange thing, his friend said, was that Susan had seemed quite content being second-in-command to such a position (she was her aunt's delivery girl, essentially—delivering files and organizing meetings) the rumor was that she had been pushed into taking on a job she knew she wasn't ready for because keeping such a position in the family was something to boast about. Secretly, Harry had just wondered if Ron was exaggerating before.

Seeing Susan Bones now, her hair cut chin-length, nothing like the long plait she'd worn at school, he felt inclined to agree with his friend. Her body had taken on its namesake, it seemed, because her skin stretched over her bones after every movement—her eyes looked owlish and large, her cheekbones jutted out. For lack of a better explanation, she looked like she'd spent far too many nights at the office and not sleeping.

"Harry," she said, her eyes crinkling with warmth as she saw him, apparently unaware of the thoughts running through his mind, "I hope you're well."

A short man came into her office, handing her a bag of what looked to be some kind of pie. He handed her a coffee.

"Black? No sugar?" she asked, unaware of how sharp her tone had turned. The man nodded feebly and exited the room quickly. He didn't even acknowledge Harry. Apparently Susan Bones had changed more than her hairstyle.

Her bone hands curled around the coffee as she took a sip. She looked at Harry again, smiling at him, apparently unaware of how much she looked like a bird of prey when she did so. "So, Harry, what is it that you're here for?"

"It's regarding the newest Deatheater investigation," he said, trying not to let his stare linger on her eyes for too long, "I've heard that they need some assistance and I have someone willing to, if the Ministry is willing to draw up an agreement with him."

The woman didn't seem surprised by this statement. In fact, it seemed to be what she expected. He couldn't help but notice the slight tinge of hunger in her eyes as she asked, purely for the record's sake, "And whom is this regarding?"

"Draco Malfoy," was the answer. Even though Harry knew he had a good argument, he couldn't help but feel a little uneasy about saying his name aloud.

There was also no surprise to this answer. Susan Bones just leaned in further, her lips twisted in what she may have interpreted as a cordial smile but to Harry simply looked awkward, "I have been hearing that name around here a lot, Harry. You have to know, of course, that the Ministry has been investigating Draco for some time—"

"Pardon me for saying," Harry interjected nervously, "but you haven't found anything either, have you?"

The woman looked surprised at this. If anything, she'd been expecting Harry to want to work on _arresting _Draco Malfoy, not defend his apparent innocence. "No," she admitted finally, giving him a gesture that suggested he continue.

Harry stared at her, certain that the awkward pause seemed much stronger to him.

"I suppose," she said finally, apparently taking his silence to mean that he had nothing more to say, "I will have to schedule an appointment with Draco Malfoy, then,"

The green eyes stared at her blankly once more, and Susan found herself wondering if Potter had suffered some kind of head injury.

"Er—this _is _the appointment with Malfoy." He stammered out.

The woman rose her brows at him, the air of her expression something Harry was certain he'd seen many times on McGonagall's face, and pursed her lips in a silent 'Oh?'

The dark-haired wizard gestured behind him. "He's waiting out there, they said I had to speak to you first and I thought they'd told you—"

"Bring him in, then," Susan said curtly, and watched as Harry left. This wasn't how she wanted to spend her day—with a headache the size of Hogwarts itself and a mountain of paperwork to do. She decided that if she was going to have to deal with Draco Malfoy, then she was going to eat some of the pie her husband sent to her.

Pie always kept her wits where they needed to be.

Potter did not seem like his usual self. The woman followed his gaze, ignoring the nervous smile that flittered across his lips when he saw her looking, and saw Draco Malfoy perched on the chair across from her, preening just like he used to at Hogwarts, giving her a very pointed stare. _Just like his nose, _she thought irritably.

Though still terribly pointy and undoubtedly still possessing the character traits of a vulture, Susan had to admit that some things about Draco Malfoy had changed since she had seen him last, skittering around like a rat.

His features had defined somewhat—he was still small (which he would always counter with simply being slender and how Malfoys everywhere were reviled for it in jealousy) but his jawline was more prominent, his silvery-blonde hair let loose, and, at least compared to Harry, was quite tall.

She reckoned if he wasn't Draco Malfoy, or just had a slightly better personality, more girls would have swooned over him. There were a few girls, mostly younger ones, who'd managed to get a glimpse of the pale man without his sneer and, for a short while, held delusions that he was someone a non-Slytherin would find desirable.

Soon, though, they all said variations of the same thing—_It's a pity, he's quite gorgeous under the right light, if you wipe that sneer off his face, but his personality, well that's just plain ugly. _

"Susan," the man drawled, "Fancy meeting you here."

The woman wasn't sure what the comment was supposed to come across as, but she took it as a sort of false encouragement (something Lucius was fond of) to start a conversation. On any other day, she'd have even given in to it.

But not today, when someone scheduled a meeting on her _lunch break _with the man no one could cancel on (not politely at least)—no, today was not a good day to be in Susan Bones's office. She turned to look at Potter, who was somehow not looking the slightest bit irritated to have to share space with his rival.

It was odd, to say the least.

"So, what are these," she paused, trying to let a polite smile settle on her features, though it took effort, "_agreements, _Mr. Malfoy?"

"In exchange for my help concerning these safehouses," the blonde said, airily, "I would like two things."

It should not have surprised her that Draco could be so brazen, but it did nonetheless. He apparently did not notice her expression, for he continued in that irritating, posh tone.

"I would like the Malfoy Manor back under my possession," he said, and that was logical to her, so even though every fiber of her being just wanted to scoff at him and turn away, she decided to listen to his second request, "and most importantly, I want the Dumbledore Centre for Wizarding Youth publicly funded by the Ministry."

Susan took a bite of pie for that, mostly to keep her unable to respond. It was quite the request, and she knew she would have to take it. Perhaps if Harry hadn't been involved, she could have knocked Malfoy down a peg or two…unfortunately, as much as she wanted to, she knew the investigation meant more.

"I think that is a reasonable request on your part," she said, nodding as if it wasn't Draco Malfoy she was speaking with, "and quite…kind…." the word was drawn out somewhat because kind wasn't exactly associated with the blonde, and it made the whole situation much stranger, "of you to make that request on Mr. Potter's behalf."

Malfoy could see she was bursting to ask just _what _in Merlin's sake was he doing, but knowing she had to keep a professional air about her, she ignored her curiosity.

"I will write these two requests up, and have you both sign them, if I may, for revision."

Shortly after, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were leaving her office, _smiling _at each other like they hadn't spent most of their childhood hissing and spitting at one another.

"I just saw the strangest pair today," she said to her husband, who was, for once, home when she happened to be.

"Stranger than a Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw?"

"Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter?"

Terry looked up from his lamb roast on the stove, surprised to hear the first man's name at all. "What about Draco Malfoy?"

"He's with Harry Potter. As in, they're shagging each other."

The man grimaced. "Suse, I really didn't need that imagery. Not after the day I've had."

"It was your day off," she said curiously. He hadn't fulfilled any particular expected role one would expect after an education at Hogwarts (and his parents expressed disappointment at that)-Terry, straying far from his Wizard roots, had taken up a job as a fairly prominent pastry chef. He spoke of perhaps working with the Magical population directly, but currently he seemed to enjoy what he was doing.

"And what a glorious day it was until you filled my head with those two."

Susan went over and kissed him on the cheek, ignoring his comment. "Thanks for the pie." 

"You know I make sure to send you some of your favorite when the restaurant makes it." There was something attractive about a man, Susan had to say, who could cook.

She found herself idly wondering if Malfoy knew how to cook at all, and if that was what stirred up the unexpected romance between the two men.

**::2::**

"You really are hopeless at this, Potter," Malfoy drawled, watching the dark-haired man frown at the directions in front of him.

Somehow, making treacle pudding wasn't as entertaining as he first thought it to be. "And you," he said, catching the blonde trying to rise up out of his seat again, "aren't supposed to be overdoing yourself. Sit that arse of yours down or I swear I'll hex you into doing it." Despite the scowl that settled on the pale man's face, he knew better than to ignore his threat. The last time Potter had warned him of something similar, he'd actually gone through with it.

Draco had made a comment about how that really revealed some secretive sexual desire, and the olive-skinned man, red-faced, looked mortified for a good five minutes over it.

He tried to stay quiet for as long as he could, but past the five minute mark it was less amusing and really quite boring, so he called Potter a prude. Suddenly, rather than be an actual insult to the Gryffindor, the man decided all seemed in balance again and took Malfoy's suggestion to make something for the kids at the centre.

Leave it to Potter to take something meant to be an obvious jab at his inability to cook something and not have it be overdone (and the Dursleys had him cook for them! Really!). He supposed the raven-haired wizard knew he was simply teasing—that he didn't _really _mean his cooking was all that awful (though how Potter was able to discern from simple teasing and an actual insult, he wasn't certain) but he chose to believe it was because, as well-intentioned as Potter may be, he could also be incredibly dense. Not as dense as Crabbe or Goyle, mind you, but still dense.

Draco didn't stop his dry, insulting commentary as Potter continued with the recipe, though he hadn't caused any grave mishaps and it actually appeared to turn out rather well. This, of course, wouldn't have been any fun to the blonde at all, so he chose to continue as if the art of creating pudding was as in need of a live commentary as Quidditch was.

Harry looked at Malfoy, taking a seat beside him. The kitchen was small, but it had a bar table at the end, which eliminated the need for an actual dining table (which Harry liked because he didn't want to bother with a table that, ideally, he would only be using for a few months, and he knew Malfoy secretly thought the same—the blonde wouldn't have had so many things to say about it otherwise) and the common area that was beside the kitchen had enough room for a sofa as well as a bookshelves, if someone would have wanted a setup like that.

As it was, the two decided to get the barest essentials possible (which left no chance of having a guest over for long, and Harry knew Malfoy liked that). The one thing Malfoy made certain of was the bed—specifically, how large and comfortable it was. He had no qualms about loudly asking the salesperson if there was one larger, or having Harry sit upon it with him. The blonde lived to make that familiar red of crimson rush upon his face—he smiled every time.

Had it been any other situation, Harry would have found it offensive. Somehow though, privately, he thought it adorable. Ron would have called him mental if he'd voiced that thought, but he supposed he _liked _how Malfoy still took roundabout ways of getting his attention from time to time.

For some reason, it made him it made him feel special.

"Are you nervous about seeing everyone tomorrow?" Harry asked Malfoy, who had, up until this point, managed to avoid the conversation topic—which meant he _was _feeling nervous about it.

The Ministry had finally returned his car after a long visit there, suspiciously more than a few miles registering on the dashboard before it had been taken away.

"As long as you don't leave me unattended in that wheelchair, I reckon everything should be safe enough," he answered idly, using his index and middle finger to 'walk' across the surface over to Harry's resting hand. Malfoy had an interesting quirk—try as he might, the blonde couldn't suppress it. He adored simply running his fingers along Potter's skin, exploring the different curves and angles, the way his muscles felt when he was tense and they way they felt when he was relaxed.

Potter found it amusing. He hadn't said anything about it, but the amusement was obvious all the same. This time, though, he remained serious—not enough to stop Malfoy from exercising his impulse, but enough not to be too distracted by it, which was what the blonde was going for.

"You don't have to go, you know," his green eyes raked across the blonde's face.

Two fingers brushed against his forearm. The touch left a tingling sensation behind, as if Malfoy was dragging a small electric charge across his arm.

"And I've told you fifty million times, Potter," the man answered evenly—which was one way it was obvious he was veering toward irritation, "I'll be fine. Don't bloody coddle me." Draco didn't even look up from his current fixed stare on the olive skin in front of him, "Don't apologise," he commanded, knowing that in just seconds he was about to.

The wizard took the other arm that Malfoy wasn't currently fixated on and brushed the silver-blonde hair out of his face. His silver eyes looked at the crooked finger dragging across his cheek. Truthfully, the blonde admitted to himself, Potter had done a good job of _not _hovering over him like some sort of flighty mother. He allowed him, within reason, to set his own schedule and didn't try to force meals together or make Draco use the wheelchair they'd taken on loan.

There were times, however, that Potter refused to let him stand up any further. The blonde had once made the mistake of presuming he could very well do without rest after a certain period of standing or walking, and had collapsed on the spot. He hadn't fainted, he simply found himself on the floor, his arse smarting a bit and his legs sprawled out in front of him. Sometimes he thought he must have looked like a doe just learning how to walk.

His pale hand continued its travels up the arm it happened to be on, making circles and random shapes as it did so. Sometimes, when he thought Potter wasn't paying attention, he'd trace hearts on the canvas in front of him.

A long but comfortable silence had passed. Malfoy lifted his pale eyes to meet Harry's pondering green ones and asked, "When do you reckon that Bones woman will get back to us?"

"Not sure," he answered absently, "Depends on how much trouble they give her about the stipulations we asked for."

The Slytherin had found himself thinking about it quite a bit. He really wanted the whole ordeal to be overwith—being in the limelight, and especially a negative one at that, was getting quite old pretty fast. He'd rather stay out of the limelight at all—there was a time, as a more naïve boy, he would have given his left arm for fame. He'd give it now to be left alone. Additionally, he worried about what it would mean for Potter if the papers got wind of the change in their relationship. There were still many who hated Draco, and probably still some that hated Potter. Being used as a weapon against the savior was one of his biggest fears.

This, however, he had yet to share. It didn't seem necessary to, really. At the moment his concerns were largely unfounded.

A sharp rap at the door interrupted their thoughts. Harry rose to answer it, looking into the peephole before opening it. Malfoy had made certain to instill that habit into him as soon as possible, and the blonde looked pleased that he had remembered to.

A deep frown was on the shorter man's face as he drew back. "It's Rita Skeeter, that awful gossip columnist." He turned, about to settle back into his former seat, when a loud rap accosted their ears again.

"Oh, Mr. Potter, I simply have a few questions! I know you're in there!"

Malfoy shook his head, wordlessly telling him to ignore it. "How long can she stand there without getting bored, anyway?"

The answer, however, was never found, because after long twenty minutes of continuous knocking and loud commentary through the door, Harry gave up, planning to tell her to, in much more polite terms, sod off.

"I'm not interested in any more interviews or stories," he said to the woman plainly, opening the door just enough to squeeze his head through.

"Oh, but Mr. Potter, don't you think the public deserves to know about the new developments with the investigation? The word is you're actually working with Mr. Malfoy on it! Your schoolboy rival!" Her words all came dripping with false kindness, an obvious sort of hunger behind them.

"And I'm choosing not to make any comments at this time." Harry said, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice, "Please respect my wishes."

Though Draco had tried to keep himself out of view when Potter opened the door, the woman caught sight of his telltale silver hair and pounced on it like a lion would for dinner. "Perhaps Mr. Malfoy would be interested?" she said silkily, utterly failing at appearing sexy. The years had not been kind to her—wrinkles and age spots didn't disappear under the glamour she used.

"No." said Malfoy flatly.

"Oh, it appears I have enough to write about anyway," the woman said, a clear amount of glee in her voice, "Take care, Mr. Potter."

The blonde just looked at Harry after he'd locked the door, fuming. "What can she say anyway, Potter? She has nothing. It was a bluff."

"Skeeter's good at twisting things around," he muttered, remembering the first time she'd interviewed and written about him.

Malfoy rose to his feet, taking Harry's hand gently and leading him to the bedroom. He crawled onto the bed, standing on his nears near the edge, motioning for the raven-haired man to sit. When he obliged, Malfoy's thumbs worked through the knots in his neck.

"Your hair really is a mess," he murmured, pressing his forehead against the back of his skull, feeling the way the man was relaxing at his touch. He liked that he was able to rile Potter up as much as he could get him to lull into calmness.

The man twisted around wordlessly, pushing the blonde gently to the bed. His lips began searching across his neck, hunting for the spot that never failed to make him gasp with pleasure whenever he bit and sucked at it. Of course, there were other things to suck at that drew out much more than a simple gasp, but Harry enjoyed teasing him.

They ripped at the fabric on each other's bodies, caring only to rid of the irritating barrier. Malfoy got Harry's shirt off first, making certain to run both hands down his skin, over the taut abdomen and the scar above his left him from when Uncle Vernon had kicked a bit too hard. The blonde tried not to think about those things—it left a bitter taste in his mouth and a series of events in his mind that were hardly legal.

After both men had managed to remove their trousers and other garments, Draco wrapped one hand around the throbbing erection bumping against his own. The sound that tumbled past Potter's lips was nothing short of beautiful—the look in his eyes and the flush across his cheeks gave him a sort of wild appearance, as if the sensations elicited something much more primal, as if they made him _alive. _

What Draco enjoyed most, though, was the parted lips, the warmth of pleasure in Potter's eyes as his climax rose further, until the fiery, smoldering look that indicated he'd come. He found it beautiful every time, and probably the best incentive to want to shag the Gryffindor seven times a day.

They rested as a tangle of limbs, satiated enough to no longer need to kiss and nip and tease every inch of skin.

Harry brushed his lips against the alabaster forehead next to his own, leading Malfoy to tilt his head up, capturing them with his lips. He pushed further, prompting the blonde to roll and put one knee between his legs, the other resting on the opposite side, his hands slightly straining against his weight as they finally parted.

The dark-haired man tucked one strand of blonde hair behind his ear, leaving his view unobstructed. Sometimes simply looking at Malfoy created the familiar stir of emotion in his chest, of which the blonde referred to as acting like a Hufflepuff.

They didn't usually say very much after sex. Somehow it would have ruined the moment. Malfoy decided what females termed as 'pillow talk' to simply be a silly female trait, one he'd always found irritating. Women could be quite the adversaries, and proved to be fun in bed, but he'd never found quite the dynamic that he had with Potter.

He didn't think he'd find it in anyone else, either.

**::3:: **

Despite the dessert Harry had brought the kids, it didn't prove to be as interesting as Malfoy in his wheelchair. Connor's face broke into the biggest smile he could manage, and he was among the first the throw his arms around him.

Then the second shoe dropped. "Where's Albus?"

_Really wasted no time there, _Draco thought. He'd been hoping his visit would keep that question at bay, but it appeared to do the opposite.

"There was an accident."

"What kind of accident?" Instantly the blonde knew he'd said the wrong thing, and after a glance at Potter, he knew he was going to be the one to tell the truth.

"There was a bad woman," he explained simply to the large eyes trained upon him, "this woman attacked me, and Albus did a very brave thing." He swallowed the lump that had somehow formed in his throat. "He went after the woman to try to protect me, and in the process sacrificed himself for me."

The wailing had started halfway into his explanation, but it increased in volume after he'd finished. Draco flinched at the crowd of children approaching him and Potter for hugs and reassurance.

It took a long, long time to calm them down—many bulbs had exploded in the process—and crying ensued the rest of the day, albeit quieter than it was initially. The news seemed to overshadow the happiness that surrounded Malfoy's return, because, even if they all approached him intermittently to give him more hugs, wiping his shirt with tears, there wasn't a smile for the rest of the day.

Harry had managed to busy himself with supervising the children in the dining hall, helping serve lunch. Many children had refused to eat, and the minutes ticked by agonizingly as the food sat, untouched.

Overall both men felt helpless and frustrated. The end of the day was difficult as well because no one wanted them to leave, and after many, many reassurances that they would come back as soon as they could, the children let them go. The permanent staff—the caretakers that supervised bedtimes—had suffered a heavy blow. Three of the nine staff remained, and it was a heavy job to manage. Harvey had taken over as one of the supervisors and managers. He avoided both Harry and Draco as much as possible, probably because of his hand in the demise of the savior's flat.

"That was terrible," Harry muttered when they returned to their temporary abode. Not even Malfoy took the chance to make a remark about how stupidly obvious that was—in fact, he'd stayed relatively quiet.

The man handed him a sandwich, and not one remark was made about his cooking skills.

"Thank you."

It had caught Harry off guard, because whilst Malfoy did use subtle ways to express gratitude, he didn't think he'd ever heard the man directly say it to him. He chose not to press the man then, eating in the silence and wordlessly taking the dishes to the sink.

When they both retired to the bedroom, however, with Draco actually curling up between his legs, expecting the arms that embraced him, he decided to. The blonde liked affection, but usually baited Harry into it rather than actively seek it.

"Sickle for your thoughts," Harry murmured, smoothing down the silver hair in front of him, watching the way Malfoy's eyes fluttered shut at the touch.

At first the strangled whisper that came out of his mouth seemed more to be a sigh. His mind deciphered it moments after.

"_I hurt them. It's my fault." _

Knowing better than try to convince the man he was wrong, Harry simply said, "You did what you had to. Don't apologise for simply being human. You did the best you could."

"No," the man sighed, a slight shake at the end of it, "I could have—I should have shown that book to someone, anyone. I shouldn't have ignored it. It was foolish of me."

Potter pressed his lips to his inner wrist. "Everyone has ghosts following them. You didn't want to give yours more power over you."

"I ended up doing that, though, didn't I?" A bitter smile twisted his features.

The arms around him tightened further, as if a tighter embrace would protect him from the venomous thoughts in his mind.

"Draco," It was a whisper.

He'd never heard Potter address him by his first name. "Yes?"

"Don't let those ghosts make you hate yourself."

"Might be too late on that one."

The man stayed silent for a moment. "I do."

Draco took one tanned hand, beginning his light, feathery drawing. "You do what?"

"Hate myself." The whisper came out broken, fluttering across his lips.

For some reason that made the lump in his throat reappear. He forced it down. "Mighty daft of you," he responded lightly, "you're the savior. I don't think it's supposed to work that way. What is it that made you hate?"

"The people that died—I couldn't save them. I was supposed to."

Draco thought that was perhaps the stupidest thing he'd ever heard Potter say. He'd done all that he could, for nothing in return. "Potter," he said simply, "You did more than people expected. You had no hand in their deaths, Voldemort did."

The blonde paused. "And furthermore, that was the stupidest thing you've ever said."

"Thanks," muttered Harry dryly.

"Weasley, Granger, Corner—even Susan Bones. Connor, and the others—they're alive because of you. You did that. No one else." Malfoy said in explanation, "You should remember that."

Harry leaned down to kiss the top of his head. "Only if you remember that you did what you could. You've helped those kids more than you know, and you'll help them more with your assist on that case."

Draco doubted it was even remotely the same. "Fair enough."

The man shifted to lay on his side, facing Potter. He mimicked him. One long, pale finger followed Harry's jawline.

"Harry?" he murmured, catching the flash of surprise in his green stare. The lips accompanying those eyes curled into a smile.

"Yes?"

Malfoy paused, somehow finding the next few words far too weighted to leave his mouth. A different set exited them. "We forgot about tonight's potions."

It wasn't what he was going to say. But before he could find the words, Harry kissed him briefly and strode through the bedroom door and corridor, out of earshot of the whisper that tumbled away quickly in the silence.

"_I love you."_


	2. Chapter 2

**::4::**

It took Susan Bones over a week to finally Owl Harry a response in regards to their meeting. Having been distracted by the man who was in the process of buttoning up his shirt, he didn't particularly feel inclined to look at the small bird that was ruffling its feathers in irritation. It hopped over to Malfoy, who abandoned his current dressing efforts, and took the letter from its leg.

Malfoy had finally relented and allowed Harry to take him shopping for some clothes. Clothes, however, was all he would allow—at the first mention of Ollivander's, the blonde gave him a declination that made it clear it wasn't up for negotiation. He hated having Harry pay for most of it, but toward the end of the day, the blonde had managed to lighten up a bit, the sullen look in his eyes chased away by the mischievous glee he felt when walking past a store that displayed a rogueish-looking man, posing in different outfits.

One of them was a dragonhide jacket and straight-legged trousers with a simple-button up shirt. The outfit itself wasn't particularly new or unique, plenty of people walked around in dragonhide jackets, but the clothes were designed to magically fit a person's body in the most flattering way possible. It was a new development in the Wizarding fashion industry, one that necessitated the hefty price tag that followed.

He'd dragged Harry in, directing the raven-haired man to wait for him outside one of the changing stalls. Malfoy was expecting the slow blush that crawled up from Harry's neck, of course, and looked particularly smug when he pushed him back into the stall, slamming the door shut, to personally remove the clothes himself.

A store employee had grown suspicious and banged on the door, having Draco lead out a very mortified-looking Harry Potter. He sagely told the blonde, after he'd recovered from the embarrassment, that he would never return to that store again.

Harry had, though, secretly—the outfit was nestled in the back of one of his drawers, waiting for Christmas. Malfoy, as nosy as he could be, wouldn't look there because he called Harry's trousers dreadful, though the green-eyed man secretly thought it less about aesthetics and the fact they proved to be irritating when he wanted to shag.

He had made certain that the blonde not touch _his _clothing, because he liked organizing everything to the point where the other man couldn't find it (he would have had to _ask _Malfoy where things were) whilst Harry simply left balled-up clothes in his corner of the room—he found that arrangement much simpler.

Pausing his thoughts, watching Malfoy's silver hair dangle in his face, exposing only slivers of the pale skin it brushed against, he saw the grey eyes rose to meet his green ones. The letter drifted toward him.

"They want to interrogate me under Veritaserum," the blonde said bitterly after a moment, returning to finishing the buttons on his shirt, and, after propping the collar up, looked through the drawer next to him for a tie.

"…_is requesting for an interview under Veritaserum before your assistance with our investigation is considered. This is the natural protocol for all participants and should take no longer than sixty minutes to complete. Please owl back at…"_

Whilst Harry didn't doubt at all that it _was _common for interviews under Veritaserum to occur, he doubted very much that their current request was simple business etiquette. Draco Malfoy was still a "person of interest" and would be one for a long time—Harry's involvement did little to change that and would likely worsen suspicions rather than lighten them. They'd had yet to really talk about what they would tell people if they asked—the two men had been busy enough that no one really had, though there were plenty of lingering stares. Just being around each other tended to do that, and it was an unspoken agreement that romantic displays were out of the question in public (not that they'd slipped from time to time, of course).

The seriousness of their relationship didn't need to be spoken of, however. It registered in every touch and lingering stare, in the brief flashes of jealousy that rippled through Harry's eyes when a women (it was usually women, men just stared) tried to chat Malfoy up, seemingly unaware of the deathstare it garnered from his shorter counterpart.

Malfoy tried to claim plenty of witches (and Muggles) had tried to chat _him _up as well—he'd make a snide remark or two that reflected some possessiveness, but Harry had shaken his head, telling the blonde that he'd completely misinterpreted the behavior—if it was a witch, it simply just had to do with being Harry Potter and there was nothing else going on. If it was a Muggle, Harry just said they were being nice.

"Sometimes I wonder about that head of yours," Draco said dryly, finally catching Potter's attention, "You can make the appointment, they like you more."

"I think you should," the other man countered, "it'll look less suspicious. Merlin knows there's enough suspicion already."

The blonde shrugged. "I'll write her back later, then." He looked at Harry, realizing that for once he was dressed and the Gryffindor was still lolling around in bed. "You should get that lazy arse of yours up," he drawled, and exited the room, smirking at the grumble behind him.

Looking in the refrigerator, the blonde spied some leftover treacle pudding. He wondered if it was still safe to eat after a week. After peeling back the lid and sniffing at it, he deemed his precautions accurate enough and began eating straight out of the bowl. The paper was on the counter, and Draco perched on a stool, looking through it, wondering how he hadn't heard Harry get up and retrieve it earlier that morning.

Perhaps he had used his wand. Draco had yet to attempt magic again, even wandless magic. He knew that theoretically there was no reason he wouldn't be able to use it, but as of yet the wizard currently lounging in the bedroom hadn't left him alone to attempt it in private. Failing at something that should have come as natural as breathing in front of Potter wasn't an option, and he'd grown accustomed to not using it. That made it no easier to deal with the fact that Potter was able to use it and he was not.

The man flipped through the pages, skimming the headlines. He paused. _I wonder… _Perhaps he could turn a page on his own. It wasn't particularly difficult, was it?

"That is hardly a breakfast," Potter said in amusement, entering the kitchen in search of his own meal.

_Never mind. _He thought to himself. "There's nothing else to eat," Draco responded aloud, pushing the paper away.

His green eyes rolled at him, and the blonde was pleased to note he had rubbed off on Saint Potter. "There's left over roast and potatoes, jam and bread, probably some oatmeal somewhere too," came the response.

"Well, we can't have food going to waste," the blonde said finally, "that roast is good for another week or so, this pudding really was reaching the end of its shelf life and I really needed make certain it wouldn't be thrown in the bin."

Harry paused. "How much is left?"

Malfoy handed him the spoon, prompting the Gryffindor to seat beside him after remarking, "Wow, you're actually sharing without having me needle at you for it?"

If the blonde had some sort of retort for that, he hadn't the chance to share it because Harry leaned in and kissed him, his hand abandoning the spoon to join its twin in cupping the pale man's face.

"I should share more often," Draco whispered huskily as they parted, "thought you know better than to tease me when we've less than fifteen minutes before we're due at the centre."

Potter gave him a cheeky smile. "I owled and said we'd be late."

"Lying now, Potter?" a mark of amusement was in his tone, "If only your beloved fans could see you now."

"They'd be crushed." The olive-skinned man kissed him again, "Perhaps we should have gotten a sofa after all."

"Mm," it was dismissive, "why do you think I made certain that bed of ours be so comfortable?"

"Not to mention the Healer saying you really need to engage in as much physical activity as possible." Potter all but purred.

"Oh, for the sake of my health…" The blonde rose to his feet, taking his hand and leading him down the corridor, where they found it far more difficult to leave a second time.

**::5::**

Of all the people that greeted them when Harry and Draco did arrive, it was Hermione who caught up to them first. Whilst Harry's excuse of Malfoy having an appointment was certainly a relevant one, she doubted its validity because the blonde rarely smiled after one. He usually looked somewhat sullen, like he hadn't gotten his way.

"Oh, hey, Hermione," said Harry, an edge of surprise in his voice, "I didn't know you'd be here today."

The bushy-haired woman shrugged, meeting Malfoy's mercury gaze in a sort of silent welcome—making small talk with him wasn't something she'd mastered, and it wasn't like there was a book about getting on with former enemies. Silent greetings were all she trusted. It gave the blonde less to work with when forming an insult.

She looked over to the dining hall, where the kids had settled. It was where they spent most of their days now—there simply weren't enough staff to continue lessons, especially not staff who _could _teach. "Everyone's in there. They've gotten a bit fidgety."

Her brown eyes met with Malfoy's again. "I hope you've got a good story."

"Of course he does, they're all _mine." _Answered the raven-haired wizard, feigning a pout.

"Someone has to tell them," drawled Malfoy, and without another word, wheeled himself to the room beside them.

This was more than slightly uncharacteristic of the Slytherin, as usually there needed to be a suggestion for him to do anything, but Harry apparently didn't find it strange.

Then again, judging by the look on his face, Hermione figured he wouldn't have noticed anyone or anything else. Her suspicion was proven when the green eyes, previously glazed, finally sharpened and flickered to her face.

"We went to the Ministry," he said finally.

His friend found this interesting and pressed him for more information.

"It seems like they're willing to fund the centre, we're not certain yet. They want to question Malfoy under Veritaserum."

Hermione was not surprised by this, since Ron had mentioned it, but even without the prior knowledge, it still wasn't anything to raise eyebrows at.

"When are you going?"

Harry shrugged. "Not sure yet. Soon, though."

The witch reckoned she would hear about it from Ron first—he was quite fond of telling her about all the recent developments and occurrences of his job, though technically much of it should had stayed private.

She watched the blonde begin an animated tale that left the smallest of the children sitting at his feet, eyes opened wide, hanging on his every word. Each scene came with a great flourish of his hands, mimicking the scene in his mind. That, however, did surprise her, and she supposed it would for some time. She'd never expected to see Malfoy as anything other than the racist arsehole he'd been during their time at Hogwarts.

Perhaps what still surprised her, despite her initial suspicions and even pushing Harry in the man's direction, was the fact that her friend was so very infatuated with him. She presumed that a much more cynical person would find it nauseating. A image of Ron flashed through her mind. Whilst he was not particularly cynical in most aspects, she knew if he had witnessed Harry's current state (his eyes had glazed over again) the man would have had something to say about it.

Men could act like such teenagers.

"Ginny and Neville are here," she said finally, taking her friend's arm and leading him through the hall, past Malfoy, "You should say hello and thank them for their help."

In the kitchen, amongst the house elves, Harry saw Ginny in the midst of washing a large pot. Scattered on the counters were casseroles and pies, most of which he figured her mother had sent.

If it was possible at all, her stomach had grown much more. She turned to him and smiled. "I'd hug you, but my hands are soapy." She held them up as if to provide proof, the large suds slipping down her arms.

The messy-haired man smiled back, his eyes moving across the rest of the kitchen. "Where's Nev?"

"Oh, I think he went to help Lisa with the laundry." Lisa was one of the nannies, also a squib, who undoubtedly deserved a large pay raise.

In the midst of all the work—the house elves were helping dry the dishes—Harry found himself realizing how much he wanted that bloody safehouse and its wards off the property as soon as possible. Really, trying to run a place as large as this without magic! It was no wonder so many people had to come and volunteer. A wave of guilt passed through him—his friends had all come together to help _him _and rather than be there with them or even thank them, he'd fallen off the radar.

"Do you know if it's a girl or boy yet?" he found himself asking. He realized that might have seemed rude—he hadn't even thanked Ginny for her help yet.

The ginger-haired woman didn't seem to mind, though, and smiled at him again. "Two boys."

This surprised him. "Oh." was all he managed to say, though part of him felt relieved that he wasn't the soon-to-be father of two children that could very well be as difficult as her two brothers. Harry was also secretly glad that the two couldn't come down and help with the centre—having their hands full with the joke shop was a blessing in disguise, because he imagined they'd have brought more than their fair share of products with them.

"Nev's excited." Ginny continued, "scared too, I think—he didn't have any brothers or sisters, you know. We're expecting them soon,"

The raven-haired wizard remembered his gratitude. "Oh—well, thanks, Ginny. For all your help, I mean…you didn't have to." 

"Harry!" Neville's voice behind him resounded in the kitchen. He clapped Harry on the back, something that he found somewhat uncharacteristic—Neville hadn't exactly been the pillar for confidence back at Hogwarts. The war, however, had changed more than just the man who killed Voldemort. "It's good to see you!"

"You should ask him what you've been wanting to," Ginny suddenly suggested.

A nervous tinge entered the man's voice as he turned to face Harry. He stumbled across his words a bit and in that moment the Neville he'd known was there.

"Ask me what?" Harry queried, furrowing his brow.

"W-well, I was wondering…wondering if maybe you'd consider being one of my groomsmen?"

If anyone had told Harry Potter that he was going to be one of the _groomsmen _at his ex-fiancée's (well, it hadn't ever been official but many had presumed he and Ginny would marry one day) wedding, he'd have called them barking mad.

As it was, the man simply stared, still processing the words, and then, quite ungracefully, said, "Uh…Sure, I guess."

Had Malfoy been there, it would have surely garnered at least a scoff.

Neville beamed. "Great! Thanks, Harry. The wedding's a while away still, but we'll let you know about our plans, okay?"

"Alright," Harry answered faintly, forcing a smile before turning and leaving. In the middle of leaving, he remembered he hadn't thanked Neville. He twisted round, his hair brushing against his cheek as he called back, "Hey, Neville, by the way, thanks for all your help."

"Sure thing, Harry."

What was _wrong _with him today? Harry found himself wondering. His eyes glanced at Malfoy, who was still telling his story, and sighed. He supposed there wasn't anything _wrong, _exactly, with being distracted by the blonde, it was just that he wasn't accustomed to it.

"Harry, the beds need to be made in the girls' common room, can you help?" Hermione said to him, sounding slightly stressed. He nodded at her, and headed toward the stares, not noticing the pale eyes that followed his back.

**::6::**

Most would consider having to spend a majority of the day in a wheelchair to be a disadvantage. Draco, however, found a way to use it strategically (well that and he liked being able to be treated as royalty). Possibly because it didn't come out of a book, Granger seemed to have trouble understanding what he was describing.

"Look, just load the plates in my lap, and wheel me down the aisle. I'll take care of the rest."

Thankfully this amount of direction she didn't question, and after grasping the handlebars of the chair, she realized what he was drawling about earlier. They worked in silence—Hermione being sure not to go fast and Malfoy pretending that the placement of the trays required his full attention.

Potter came across them like that, and had to keep his face from splitting into a wide grin. After finishing the entire round of tables, the blonde caught him staring and rolled his eyes. Leave it to the Golden Boy to get sentimental and gushy over nothing.

The aforementioned savior, however, had gone missing at the start of lunch time. He checked to see that Granger and the she-weasel had things under control, and rose to his feet, planning to pursue the little lion that had wandered away.

"You can _walk?" _one of the older boys blurted out, "You were faking it!"

"Settle down and eat your food," he drawled, "you'll dribble everywhere it otherwise."

This roused more whining, but he left it to Granger.

First he checked the classrooms, but he found no sign of the messy-haired wizard. He went round to the kitchen, and was absent there was well. Finally, he checked the library.

He did not found his wayward Gryffindor, but he did find Connor, whose hair had grown far too long and his nose buried in a book—it was tilted backward into his lip, the edges digging into bony knees, so the title was hidden. He was wearing a long-sleeved red shirt, a pair of grey denim. His shoes peeked out from the cross-legged position he was in.

"You didn't hear the bell for lunch?" he asked, startling the boy. Wide brown eyes fell upon him, edging into a sort of relief when he saw it was Draco. He shrugged.

"I wasn't hungry."

The blonde tilted his head in curiosity, not used to seeing the quieter side of him when it happened to just be the two of them. He wondered if it had to do with his absence. He walked over to him, settling beside him after a precarious moment of wobbly legs.

"What'll happen when you get hungry and there's no lunch waiting for you?"

Dark eyes regarded his pale ones seriously. "Then I shan't ask for it." It was reproachful, with more than an edge of insolence in his stare.

Draco wasn't exactly an expert, but he didn't think eight-year-olds were supposed to be so moody. He always thought that came later, the joyous occasion called puberty. He took the book from the boy's hands, ignoring the angry cry that resulted.

"That was mine!" he shouted.

"And you will get it back when you finish your lunch." answered the blonde man calmly.

Connor scowled, looking quite similar to a certain Slytherin when he was that age. "No. You can't make me, either."

Draco raised his brow. "When I ask you to do something, you shouldn't talk back."

"Sod off!" He shouted, his dark eyes burning with anger, a deep red filling his face. The light fixture above them flickered.

Some people might have found that offensive. For some strange reason Draco found it humorous, though he dared not laugh. "Connor," he said coolly, "What's the problem? Are you angry at me?"

"No." Judging by the pouty look on his face, the blonde thought it to be the opposite of his answer.

"Is it because I was away for so long?"

Connor didn't answer, he just kept staring at the floor like it had done some terrible transgression against him.

Draco wondered if telling him the truth would do much good. He wasn't certain he could handle it. The boy could be…fragile, at times. Wisely he did not impart that thought.

"Connor, if I tell you something, will you give me your word not to tell another soul?"

The angry dark stare softened somewhat by the curiosity that elicited. "I s'pose," he mumbled. After a moment he stuck out the smallest finger on his left hand. Draco stared at it blankly, wondering what in Merlin that was supposed to mean.

"Pinky swear," the boy said, as if reading his thoughts, "You cross yours with mine so you know I've promised."

Draco smiled slightly, raising his own finger to his, the pale skin contrasting greatly against it. _He has the same skin as like Potter's, _he thought briefly. Out of context and due to the fact that he was _shagging _Potter, it sounded somewhat inappropriate and inwardly cringed at it.

"I was in the hospital because a woman injured me," he began, releasing the finger curled around his own, "I've not fully gotten better, but the Healers there did a very good job in helping me."

"How did she hurt you?"

Draco made certain to answer that question as delicately as possible. "She used a curse."

The boy's eyes widened again. "An Unforgiveable?" he whispered, in awe.

It was probably a combination of one and a few others, he figured, now that Connor had asked. It wasn't necessary, he thought, to share that—the boy didn't need any more traumatizing ideas in his head, after all. "No. But I had to stay in the hospital and take many potions. I'm not allowed to walk on my own for very long, that's why I use the wheelchair."

"Oh." He looked up again, scanning the skin he could find as if there would be a scar like Potter had. "Did you get my card?"

The blonde smiled again. "I did. It was very kind of you, thank you for sending it."

Whatever traces of anger that had lingered before vanished at the answer, because Connor finally smiled.

"In fact," Draco continued, "I have it hung up on my refrigerator right this instant. Loads of people come by and see it and remark on how wonderful it is."

The second part was a bit of a fib, as no one had actually visited him and Potter at their flat, but the card was actually on the refrigerator. It had been Potter's idea—probably because he had more experience with sentimentalism—but regardless it was true. Connor smiled more at that, a faint blush of pride on his face.

In a flash the smile crumpled into sadness, tears spilling past the doe-like stare, and a cold sort of panic captured the blonde's heart. What had he said?

Between hiccups, the boy wrapped both arms around his midriff, saying, "I thought you had died or gone 'way forever and that you didn't like me anymore."

A pale hand patted his head in an attempt to reassure his younger counterpart., the motion somewhat awkward but this didn't seem to bother the crying boy clinging to him. He felt most like his father in that moment, reminded of the Crup and his words, so loosely, his arms wrapped around the other.

The cold claw around his heart had evolved into a painful stab, like someone had ripped a hole in his chest. _This must be what it's like to have your heart broken, _he thought, and realized romantic relationships were not the only thing to cause a break.

"I'm not going anywhere, Connor." The man finally said softly—he hadn't quite mastered a soothing tone.

The bow drew away from him, wiping the tears with his sleeves. "Promise?"

Draco brought his hand up again, showing the same finger that Connor had moments earlier. He'd never seen such an intense look of gratitude before. The finger wrapped around his tightly, and then the owner of it fell forward again, arms returning to their position, his head against the blonde man's rib.

"Are you ready for lunch now?"

Connor finally relented, taking one last look at the book tucked under the man's arm.

"I'll carry your book for you, no one will take it." He reassured him, rising to his feet and ignoring the slight sway as he tried to balance. He offered one hand, pulling the boy up to his feet.

The Slytherin followed Connor to the dining hall. When he found a seat, he tugged at Draco's arm, indicating that he wanted him to stay. His silver eyes regarded the chattering children, sweeping past each head of hair, looking for Potter's dreadful and unmanageable raven-coloured locks.

He settled beside the boy. When seeing that the youngster had reached for the fudge—he wondered how that had found its way in the centre—on his tray first, his pale hand reached over to gently push it toward the sandwich in front of him. "After you've eaten some of your sandwich," Draco directed.

Connor rolled his eyes. "Do I have to eat the celery too?"

"Yes, Connor, you do." A smile played on the pale features, showing that he wasn't cross with him.

This earned another eye-roll but no further comment. Connor really did remind him of the younger boy he had been.

_Finally, _Harry did show up, appearing in the doorway of the dining hall. He spied the silver hair and his green eyes settled on the curiosity in Malfoy's grey ones.

Knowing that a conversation on his whereabouts was unavoidable, he still chose to not bring it up then. The other man probably thought it was something serious.

It was.


	3. Chapter 3

**::7::**

"Harry," Ludo Bagman began jovially, "Just the man I've been looking for." At that comment, the man knew whatever came out of his mouth next was not something he wanted to hear.

Bagman had since retired after the war. There had been a lot of controversy about his ability to do his job (and more than his fair share of accusations surrounding his fondness for gambling), and ultimately the man decided a resignation was his best option. Whilst he still didn't find it fair, more than one employee at the Ministry had made it clear that he was no longer in a position of authority nor did his presence demand a certain level of respect.

He did, however, keep in touch with the Ministry and its operations. Even though his professional opinion no longer mattered, he at least still managed to worm his way into sitting in at a trial or meeting.

"I've come to ask if you would reconsider your stipulation regarding the contract with Draco Malfoy," he said, not noticing the flash of surprise and then anger in the emerald stare, "The Ministry can't afford to be taking on any more organizations. We're hoping to attract more people to Hogwarts—right now we're looking for professors and a headmaster."

"This centre has done plenty to help the community," answered the savior, "I see no reason why we should have support from you."

"Well, that's the thing," the man said, trying to keep his tone upbeat, "a lot of these children are due to start their schooling. If we could send them to Hogwarts, they'll have somewhere to stay, at little cost. I think it's a wonderful compromise."

"What about the ones that aren't ready to start at Hogwarts?" It came out harsher than Harry wanted it to, because it revealed just how ludicrous the idea was.

Fudge didn't even blink at that. "There's orphanages here. It will be much safer and they'll be able to spend time with more of their peers than what's available here. I think that's important—it'll ready them for their attendance to a Wizarding school."

It was complete and utter bullshit, Harry knew. Somehow that didn't stop Bagman from prattling on further, dragging him fuher and further to his snapping point. The man was also blind to his nonverbal reaction.

"I will not accept that," he said bluntly, "Either you honor our request or we will not help you."

Now the other man was beginning to get riled up too. "We've agreed to let Draco Malfoy gain possession of his family's manor upon proof of his innocence. It's a lovely place, and perhaps you could use that as a place for these children to live."

It was _Draco's _house. There was no reason he should give it up because the Ministry was too selfish to help them. Futhermore, it enraged him to hear such an accusation against Malfoy.

"Please report that I am declining this offer. There are no negotiations to be made, Mr. Bagman. Let the Ministry dwell on that for a while." Harry said icily, "I have to return to the dining hall."

Bagman was trying to hide the seething that emanated from his body. The man had no skills for it because it was obvious. "Very well, Mr. Potter. I do need to mention that this is Mr. Malfoy's choice. If he happens to accept our compromise, we will accept that. It's standard protocol, you see. The contract is in Mr. Malfoy's name, and it is his decision. We'll be in touch."

Harry didn't bother with a farewell. He was too afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would either insult the man or hex him.

When the wizard finally arrived to the dining hall, his eyes immediately landed on Malfoy's form. At least he wasn't going to be alone tonight. Harry didn't think he could bear the anger whirling around him for long.

**::8::**

Draco found that he had acquired a shadow. Connor followed him everywhere until the blonde had finally relented and settled in the library again. This seemed to make the brown-eyed boy quite content. Leaning against his shoulder, with his knees bent and feet flat on the floor, the only sound that filled the room brimming with books was the sounds of each page turning when Connor had finished with it.

The book was about different kinds of dragons, and for each one mentioned, a tale or two accompanied the richly-colored, animated pages. It was safe to say that dragons and other magical creatures was the child's favorite subject. The boy would constantly share random facts, and whilst Draco did not particularly find he had much interest in the creatures, he did like that Connor opened up to him and, perhaps most importantly, was actually learning, despite the fact that lessons had been paused in light of the investigation that was occurring.

When the time came for him to retire to bed, Connor refused to listen to the nanny that was watching his group. After a solid few months of refusal and selective hearing, Draco had to get himself involved.

"I don't wanna go," the boy cried, "I wanna go home with you."

"Well, Connor, how about this: when you've changed into your sleepwear and have been tucked in, I'll make sure to tell you good night."

The boy frowned, clearly not finding this option as wonderful as the one he suggested.

"I'll be back tomorrow, Connor. I promised, didn't I?" he reminded him.

Connor kicked at the floor lightly. He didn't want Draco seeing him cry again. Crying was for babies.

"Do it for me, please?" Draco asked as the dark eyes regarded his own. He knew Connor would be unable to argue with that—disappointing the man was one thing he never wanted to do. It made him feel slightly guilty, as if he was being manipulative, but it worked.

"'Kay. You're going to come up and say good night still, right?"

A warm smile crossed Draco's pale lips. He ruffled the boy's hair, a sign of affection. "Wouldn't miss it for the world,"

Connor was satisfied with that finally, but still trudged up the stairs slowly, looking back every few seconds to see Draco until he was out of view.

Potter hadn't seen, so when he was about to leave, Draco told him to wait. This seemed to puzzle him and he opened his mouth to ask why, but the blonde was taking long strides away.

He found Connor with drooping eyelids, and a sleepy smile grew on his face. Draco crouched down to meet the boy's level and whispered, "Good night."

"Mr. Corvus?" he said, reminding Draco that the boy hadn't learned of his real name. He would have to tell him tomorrow.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Had Draco not thought it inappropriate, the man would have brushed his lips against the boy's forehead. A sort of sadness washed over him at the realization. A real father would have been able to do that.

The blonde walked down the stairs again, ignoring the tiredness in his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. One pale hand had made certain to wrap around the banister.

Potter had waited, looking up at him curiously. The blonde was about to walk past him in an attempt to lead the wizard outside, but he refused to move, recognizing the familiar unsteadiness as exhaustion.

"It's only a few steps away, Potter," Draco muttered. His dark hair swayed as he shook his head.

"In." The blonde let out an eye-roll and a long sigh but did as he was told. After he had settled into the chair, Harry leaned forward to kiss him atop the head. The scent of Malfoy's shampoo greeted him. He liked the smell.

He didn't notice Ginny staring at them in the dining hall, her jaw dropped.

**::8::**

"So why is it that you had me wait?" Harry finally asked, watching Malfoy move about the kitchen as he prepared dinner. The light glinted off his hair, giving him a sort of glow.

"Connor wanted me to say good night in exchange for going to bed." It was a simple answer, straightforward, but that didn't stop the surprise registering on Potter's face. He asked no more questions, choosing to let the man impart further information when he wanted to.

"Where'd you go off to today?" That, on the other hand, was a question he hadn't wanted to deal with until he'd eaten and was curled up in bed.

The blonde brought two plates, pushing one toward Harry before sitting beside him. His brow rose, the forkful of chicken paused in midair. "Well?"

"Bagman."

"You left for a bag?" Draco asked, furrowing his brow with a frown. "Why on Earth did you think that was important?"

"No, Ludo Bagman."

A look of realization flittered across his face, reflecting the slight panic that occurred within him. He set his fork down, suddenly much less hungry than before. His stomach roiled.

Over the course of the meal that Malfoy had allowed to grow cold, Harry described what the man had said, each sentence deepening the anger that made his eyes glow.

"Bastard," he hissed, ignoring the clatter that echoed as he dropped his plate in the sink, "Mark my words, Potter, I'll make certain that he'll regret saying those things."

The shorter man rose to his feet and walked over to where the blonde was staring. He looked concerned. "Don't, Malfoy. The last thing you need is more bad blood with them. Try to be as civil as you can."

"They don't deserve it," he snarled, stalking away to the bedroom.

Harry let him be for a while. When it came time for his potions, however—they had finally received more during their recent visit to Mungo's—he went there. Malfoy's ears pricked up at the sound of his footsteps and he glanced to make sure it was him before dragging his stare back to the ceiling.

The dark-haired wizard set the potions on the small table next to him, rolling onto the mattress and closer to the fuming man opposite of him. "Malfoy," he murmured gently, "You've got to take your potions."

"I don't give a shit about the potions," snapped the blonde. When a hand rested on his shoulder, he shook it away.

"Could do this all night."

Desperately wanting the peace of a quiet room, the blonde relented and took the two potions wordlessly. He looked at Harry as if there was something he wanted to say, but nothing was said.

"We'll go to the Ministry tomorrow, okay?" It was an attempt to take the edge off the rage Draco was feeling but it had little effect. The blonde still wanted to rip Fudge apart with his bare hands. He didn't mention that it would have to be after work, but he decided to tell Potter the next morning, when his voice wouldn't turn words into sharp daggers.

For the rest of the night nothing was said aloud, but in the darkened room, with his face covered by the shadows Draco allowed the Gryffindor to pull him into a hug. It didn't make things any better, but at least it reminded him that he had one ally for the upcoming battle.

**::9::**

Harry had been halfway into buttering his toast when Malfoy joined him in the kitchen, noisily looking milk to accompany his cereal. "There's no more milk," he said, "I can make you toast, if you want."

"Blueberry jam?" the blonde asked, shutting the door behind him, blowing a piece of his hair out of his face.

"Blackberry or apricot."

The pale man made a grimace, though Potter hadn't seen it. The apricot jam, apparently, had been a gift from one of the Weasleys. It hadn't been for any particular occasion—Molly simply liked sending Harry some homemade food when she could, probably thinking him incapable of doing it himself. Whether she knew about Draco's presence was an unanswered question, but since he'd yet to witness any howlers or, God forbid, a midnight visit in the hunt for answers, he found that she probably did not.

"Draco?" Potter had turned to look over his shoulder, his green eyes regarding his face closely, after not getting a response.

"Blackberry," the blonde muttered, "I hate apricot." He paused for a moment. "Are you _sure _we don't have any blueberry?"

This seemed to be a stupid question because the raven-haired man sighed in response. "_Yes, _Malfoy, I am certain we don't have any blueberry jam." The toaster popped loudly, and Harry made a twist with his wand, bringing the bread to a second plate beside him.

The Slytherin slumped onto one of the stools at the counter, muttering what suspiciously sounded like, _"Speccy git." _

When they finally did arrive to the car, after Potter took forever and a day to finish his toast and brush his teeth, and then nearly forgot the wheelchair (which he'd been hoping he would—it was getting rather cumbersome to use) the blonde found himself even more irritated. He'd nearly forgotten to tell the wizard that the Ministry would have to wait, and the savior apparently thought _that _stupid as well because he just sighed again.

"You're pouting," the green-eyed man said after regarding his expression at a light.

"I am not," Malfoy snapped, and frowned more.

"I'm guessing it's not about blueberry jam, either," answered Harry lightly.

"No, it's about the bloody milk!" The man growled, his grey eyes boring holes in the tanned profile of Potter's face. The Gryffindor's lips twitched, as if the answer was somehow amusing despite being coated in venom.

The car rolled to a stop, and Potter glanced at the clock before putting it in park and retrieving his keys. "We're early," he commented.

"Ten whole minutes," drawled the blonde, rolling his eyes, "truly something to applaud yourself on. I bet you're just dying for any reason to do so, hmm?"

A ripple of tension registered on Harry's face, something that was undoubtedly Malfoy's aim because the blonde smirked at it. Though he'd gotten what he wanted, the grey-eyed man twisted around further, to face the other man in at the wheel better, all to proclaim, "All hail savior Potter for managing to get us here ten minutes early, and better yet, not kill us in the process!" A slow, sarcastic clap followed the remark and that seemed to be what caused the explosion in the raven-haired man's demeanor.

"_Look, you either admit what's bothering you or say nothing at all, because I've got better places to be then listen to your insults!" _he snarled, bottle-green eyes glittering with the rage Malfoy had put there.

"Better places?" Malfoy said coolly, after gaining control of the pain that had somehow occurred at those words, "You'd best be on your way, then, Potter. Don't want to be jeopardizing that reputation of yours, after all."

Harry knew he should have said something honest, anything but the words that he had voiced aloud. His temper, on the other hand, seemed to harness the recklessness the man was fond of in such emotional situations and thus he operated on a sort of talk-now, think-later principle. "Fine, then. I do."

The blonde was surprised to see the window of the driver's side managed to stay intact after the way Potter had slammed the door. He stayed there for a few moments, making sure to only regard the seething man in the corner of his eye, waiting for his form to disappear past the doors of the centre.

When he did, Draco exited the car, and paused to look at the wheelchair, cramped in the backseat, one wheel spinning lazily as if it were waving at him. "You can stay there," he said to it.

Even with the absence of the chair, and the resounding greetings from the children when he arrived (Connor had ignored the clatter of his chair, which had fallen backward as he ran to hug him) the man couldn't ignore the nagging sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach throughout the day. Much like his first few weeks at the centre, Potter avoided him and, if they did have to occupy the same room, pretended he didn't exist at all.

…

_One reader had a very good question, and I wanted to clarify it here, as I didn't have much space to explain it in the summary—this story is surrounding books 1-4 mostly, with some aspects of book 5, but any references to book 6 or 7 are accidental._

_Finally, thanks for reading!_

_EDIT:: I made a huge mistake! Apparently going on hiatus for a year can do that—Fudge was killed in Joint Custody. I've made a few edits to this to remedy that but it's nothing overly important._

_B. _


	4. Chapter 4

**::10::**

"You look sad, Mr. Corvus." The pale man's ears pricked at the name. Draco was suddenly reminded of the honesty he'd intended to impart that day, but judging on how well the morning went, it wasn't looking very positive.

His eyes greeted Connor's, who had settled beside him in the grass. He wasn't about to talk about his feelings or was he about to rant on about Potter to a eight-year-old boy. Draco was certain there was a rule against it somewhere. He took the obvious exit "You're supposed to be with the others, with Gr—er, Mrs. Weasley." He was supposed to be there too, but Potter was standing right alongside his bushy-haired comrade and the man decided he needed a break from Gryffindors for a little while.

The boy shrugged at that, beginning to pick at the dry plants digging into his leg. "She's lecturing us on safety. I've heard it a _billion _times, I swear." He rolled his eyes.

The fact that he managed to sneak away under Potter's watch didn't escape him.

Draco wondered how much of the boy's behavior had been influenced by him. He didn't remember Connor being so bold before. The Brat, the blonde boy who the man still didn't like, and his bullying tactics seemed to decrease to almost nothing. He would have to be sure to ask Granger later about what happened between the two boys.

"My name isn't Mr. Corvus." He chose not to look at his visitor, not certain that he wanted to witness whatever disappointment that may have conjured.

"Well, what is it?"

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." The man tensed slightly, realizing that his name had exploded more than a time or two across the front page, and coupled with the less than flattering aspects of the stories, he wasn't going to be surprised if Connor ran around screaming, _Deatheater!_

"Did you change your name because of that lady?" the boy asked curiously, apparently unaware of the history behind his surname.

Draco wondered how…or rather, who, had raised Connor before his unexpected move to the centre. On the second thought, he wondered if any of the children were from pureblood families at all…he supposed it could have been possible, even if not one of them recognized the Malfoy name.

"Yes, something like that." He answered finally, realizing two brown eyes were still regarding him, waiting for the answer.

"So what should I call you?" Connor asked, ignoring the finality of his answer.

"Draco is fine." He found himself smiling slightly at that.

The boy stayed quiet for a moment. "What did the boy find at the end of the cave? With the Kappa?"

Raising a brow, the blonde said, "You still remember that?"

"Mm-hm," came the noncommittal answer as he waited.

"Do you know what a Crup is?" Draco asked. It was a stupid question because Connor read as much as he could get his hands on, and magical creatures were one of his favorite subjects.

Needless to say the boy nodded, and was about to say something else when a voice interrupted them. It sounded very much like a certain Gryffindor that Draco happened to be avoiding.

"Connor," Harry sighed, relieved that the brown-haired boy was unhurt—and that he hadn't hurt anyone else in the process. He didn't know why his first thought wasn't to look for Malfoy, because it seemed to be that wherever the blonde man went, the boy would follow. He ignored his thoughts and crouched down to the boy's level, his eyes meeting the Slytherin's grey ones for a moment too long. "Hermione said that we all had to stay inside. You know that."

"Leave him be, Potter," said Malfoy airily, "He was with me, I'm more than capable of—"

"Shall we test that, Malfoy?" It came out harshly, and Connor found himself wincing at it.

The pale man glanced at the boy, saying, "He has issues with people who threaten his authority. Bark's louder than his bite, though."

"I do not!" shouted the raven-haired man, inwardly cringing at the childishness of his behavior.

This answer made Malfoy smirk. Sometimes Harry made it far too easy for the Slytherin to one make snide remark after the other. It was perhaps his favorite form of entertainment.

"I don't," Harry repeated, calmer now; he directed the answer to a slightly bewildered Connor, who seemed to be wondering if he was going to receive a punishment or not. He detected this, and with heavy relent, just said, with a finger pointing to the doorway, "Go on, Connor. Don't let me catch you wandering the corridors alone, either—straight to the dining hall."

The boy nodded, and was halfway through the entryway before looking over his shoulder again at Draco, as if he was wondering if the man would follow. With a slightly apologetic stare, the blonde gave a short wave, apparently not out of Harry's clutches just yet.

Connor let the door slam loudly behind him—something Ginny was endlessly telling them not to do—and stood in the corner, out of view. The window above him was shut, but he peeked through, standing on his tiptoes.

"It looks really bad," Harry seethed to the blonde who had risen to his feet and now was looking at him carelessly, "when you argue with me like that. If they don't take me seriously—"

"The world won't put you in its spotlight for the day?" Malfoy drawled, a smug grin stretching across his face. He added sarcastically, "By the way, you really managed to channel Snape there, it was quite chilling, really."

The savior narrowed his eyes. "Look, you can't bring _personal _problems into work. Leave us out of this. Leave them out of this." After the first sentence, his smug grin had quickly devolved into a sneer.

"Why _do _you think everything has to do with you, Potter?" snapped the other man. He regained his composure a moment after and said, quite huffily, "Besides, we both know this isn't about your _authority _issues."

Heat stirred beneath Harry's cheeks, and when he tried to will the response away, it simply made it worse. As much as he hated it, Malfoy seemed to enjoy it. This made him hate it more, which really just continued the cycle.

A haughty expression appeared on the blonde man's face.

"Best not waste my time with…what was it that you said?" His grey eyes flickered to the sky in an exaggerated display of retrieval.

"Oh, right." He said, the grey stare crashing down to drill into Harry's own, "_Bullshit. _Now, if you'll excuse me, I actually _do _have somewhere better to be."

If Malfoy had been planning to leave, Harry didn't give him the chance. "You insufferable git!" he snarled, all but throwing a hand into the slender build in front of him; the rest of his body followed, knocking the arrogant little grin off the blonde's face in the process. Malfoy's body swayed slightly between the arms pinned against him.

Neither man went anywhere. An awkward pause occurred.

"Potter, are you…_hugging _me?" Draco asked, slight disbelief creeping into his voice, "That's how you treat the insufferable people in your life? No wonder you—"

"Shut up, Malfoy." The shorter man stepped back quickly, some sense knocked into him, presumably, at the first sound of the paler man's voice. "I was aiming to literally wipe off that grin of yours but then I realized you've been up and about too long—"

"So the next logical option was to hug me?" he drawled.

"_Shut up!" _Harry repeated, retreating from him, "Better than having you break an arm and end up in Mungo's again."

"By the way," Malfoy said, amusement resting on his lips crookedly, "we had an audience." His grey eyes flickered pointedly to the window behind him, where Connor had since slipped from view and was probably scurrying away to the hall upon being caught by the blonde's stare.

"_Shit!" _swore Harry, looking nervous, "You don't reckon he heard or saw—"

"Wasn't much to see or hear, Potter, but somehow I doubt he'll tell anyone." Malfoy drawled.

He supposed the blonde was right, but didn't admit it. The raven haired man just said, "Don't stay out here too long. Lunch is starting soon." Part of him, the smallest sliver, hoped he would pull him back, keep Harry there in that moment, or at least say something.

Malfoy didn't.

**::11::**

A strange game of cat-and-mouse had ensued after Malfoy and Harry's unintended display of affection. He wanted to see to Connor personally and try to…well, he didn't really know yet, but unlike Malfoy, he didn't know how likely the boy was going to be when it came to keeping such secrets. He was eight years old, how many eight-year-old boys_could _keep a secret?

Thinking that lunch would have definitely lured him out—as he'd chosen not to go to the dining hall like Harry had told him to—the savior made certain to be there, his green eyes mentally taking in each face, ticking off the names. _"Sarah, Dean, Bryce…"_

Ginny ambushed him after that, rattling on in a panic about how there were only enough trays for half the group. Though he gently tried to remind her that the other ones were probably on one of the drying racks, she was having none of it and forcefully dragged him with her (she could waddle at quite the pace when she needed to).

With Harry off his trail, this left Connor unattended save for one Slytherin lurking around.

"You're going to get me in trouble again," Draco said in jest, finding a very familiar head of brown hair hiding in the broom closet. Secretly he'd been searching for him, (and was frankly quite exhausted—a sort of jelly-like wobbliness was inching up his frame) but the man decided a worrisome, Potter-like approach was not the best.

A book tumbled past his lap and landed on the floor with a dull thud. Apparently Connor spent more time there than Draco had known. Raising a brow, the blonde held out one pale hand.

"Is Harry angry?" He asked, staring at the hand, "Is that why you're here instead of him?"

Something about the stare that struck his own was very reminiscent of Longbottom, the Slytherin noted. Aching was creeping up his legs now, reminding him of the task at hand: retrieve Connor.

"No, no. He's not angry, Connor, he was just surprised."

The boy regarded this answer doubtfully, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. "You're lying."

Letting out a strangled sigh, Draco suppressed an eye-roll and said, "He's afraid you'll tell on him." It sounded childish, but Potter was acting it, he would use words as he saw fit.

"I wouldn't!" Connor shouted defensively, and paused. He corrected himself, "I mean, I won't."

"Which is precisely what I said, and you should consider the matter is resolved. So please, Connor, may we go to the dining hall now?"

"Can't you just get the trays and—"

In a great tumble of sticks and what appeared to be dishrags, Draco found himself on the ground, his long legs, though aching stubbornly, splayed out beneath him. The fall didn't surprise him that time, so he simply blew one pale strand of hair out of his face in irritation. His grey eyes glanced at the boy beside him who, thankfully, had not been hurt.

The mops, though, were splintered like they'd been hit by a car. Seeing as all they did was hit the blonde man a few times, he looked at Connor again.

"Sorry," he said in a small voice, looking like he was trying very hard not to cry, "I didn't mean to."

Draco just laughed weakly, rustling the boy's hair. "We needed new ones anyway." He paused, and then asked, "You are all right though, aren't you?"

Connor stared for a moment. "If I say I'm not, does that mean I can stay here with you?" he asked, hope in his voice.

Pale eyes regarded the boy beside him, who had since stood up and appeared much taller than his sprawling frame, pale arms threatening to shake as he held himself up. "Well," he answered seriously, "You might need to go to Mungo's."

The boy apparently didn't find this to be a negative factor. He looked at Draco curiously. "I've never been to St. Mungo's." Upon seeing the wry look in response, he asked, "What's it like?"

"Dull." Draco answered, "Very dull, there's nothing to do."

"I suppose next time you shouldn't go all day without heeding the Healer's orders then," answered a very crisp voice. It wasn't Potter, but it was still a Gryffindor and he wasn't certain if he had lucked out at all, especially not with the woman whose hobby was apparently lecturing people.

"We needed new mops anyway," Connor supplied helpfully, kicking one shard of wood under the cupboard as if Granger wouldn't see it otherwise.

The bushy-haired woman's stoic face faltered at his voice—she was a bit of a bleeding heart when it came to kids, but she secretly adored Connor because of his love of reading. It was for this reason she smiled at him and said, "Yes, I suppose we did. You can't run off whenever you feel like it, though. It could be dangerous."

"For the mops," drawled Malfoy, a knee-jerk reaction.

Granger, however, ignored that. She took Connor firmly by the hand and led him away to the dining hall. The boy was wise enough not to argue, but it was still clear it was not of his own volition.

Draco wondered for a moment what exactly it was that he was going to do, having been abandoned with bits of splintered wood everywhere. He supposed he would just have to rest long enough for the aching in his legs and feet to go away.

Moments later, though, Granger returned with a broom (and sadly not the flying sort), having not forgotten about him. She looked somewhat cross, and the blonde found himself wishing she'd just abandoned him after all.

"He really looks up to you, Malfoy," she whispered sharply, sweeping at the mess haphazardly, making him wince as a spray of chips hit his skin, "You've got to watch what you say."

The blonde stared up at her sardonically, clearly thinking of her just an insufferable know-it-all who'd gotten her suggestion out of a book. Hermione wasn't going to let him know about the magical parenting guide she'd been reading, but there were plenty of wonderful points in them.

"When he's gone off, you know," she continued, ignoring the look of utter disregard on his face, "You shouldn't just pal up to him. You've got to tell him he should return to where he needs to be, otherwise you're just encouraging him to—"

"Granger," Draco interrupted, "How I choose to handle misconduct is my choice. You are, frankly, no more qualified to lecture me on childcare than Potter would be."

That made the woman freeze. She glared at him.

"He's a child who's lost both parents and a brother!" Granger snapped, abandoning all pretense of cleaning, "Someone who needs structure and support, someone who's not afraid to let him know where the lines are! Not some spoilt prat who doesn't know what responsibility _is _and continually tries to act like the pompous arse your whole family was!"

With a combination of what seemed to be slight remorse and continuous anger, the woman whirled around and left in a huff—which was a blessing to Malfoy, as he had very nearly called her something the Weasel would have hexed him for.

She marched straight into Harry, who was in the process of soothing Ginny over something.

"Hey, Hermione," he said, hesitating at the look on her face, "Did something happen?"

The woman had veered straight around him and was heading toward the door that the kitchen staff usually used—it was barred off to anyone else.

"Malfoy," she answered angrily, beginning to pull out all of the missing trays from the rack there. She looked up at him, ignoring Ginny's surprised stare and narrowed into Harry's concerned one, "Your boyfriend has got himself in a bit of an accident with the mop cupboard, Harry. You should check on him."

He would have corrected her on her terminology. He wasn't certain Malfoy actually _was _his boyfriend. The savior couldn't get an answer in because just as he opened his mouth she said, defensively, "I very well tried! He's just a spoilt prat."

Deciding that no answer was the best answer, Harry left, somewhat relieved to escape the room of women, and was doubly relieved to see Connor at one of the tables. He looked sullen but at that point, Harry didn't care.

He needed to do some damage control, and it all started with Malfoy.

**::12::**

The blonde, proving, perhaps, how crafty Slytherins could be, had managed to situate himself quite comfortably on the desk that Harry taught in. He perched there, legs crossed, looking as though he couldn't have possibly been the propeller of all the chaos that had exploded recently. Harry knew that was perhaps the most telltale sign that he had, indeed, been up to something.

"Potter," the blonde drawled, raising to look at him through his lashes, "fancy meeting you here." His silver-hair was slightly mussed, falling into his face when he began leaning on one arm, giving the other a rest.

"You," the dark-haired man muttered, eyeing him with irritation, "have been causing trouble."

The grey-eyed man frowned. "I have not," he said, "You and Granger are just far too sensitive."

A brief staredown occurred, one that reminded Harry of their duel in second year, before either man spoke again. The only trace of exertion that Malfoy displayed was the way his arm shook slightly before he switched to the other side again.

"I don't think we'll be able to go to the Ministry today," Harry announced.

Malfoy's face predictably changed from nonchalance to surprise, and then anger. "What, because Granger can't handle criticism for her nosing in other people's business? The longer we wait—"

The dark-haired man frowned, not knowing what exactly it was that the blonde said to Hermione, but knowing nonetheless that it was probably offensive. He inwardly sighed at the idea of having to force another apology to keep the peace. One pale arm released, the weight shifting to its twin.

"You overdid it today," the green-eyed wizard supplied in a way that probably seemed useful to him but really just came across as obnoxious to Malfoy.

He rolled his eyes. "Thank you for sharing that earth-shattering news with me, Potter." This response didn't seem to bother his rival, however. He seemed pensive.

"I could take you home right now," answered the other, thinking out loud, "It _is _lunch."

Draco had to interject. "I am not a child, and you aren't taking me anywhere," he said snottily. After a moment's thought, he added, "Unless it's the Ministry."

"You're acting it," he shot back, feeling the tension rise in the room. He closed the door behind him, figuring that if they were going to argue, it may as well be as muffled as possible.

"I would actually have to disagree, Potter," drawled the blonde, "and say that it happens to be _you."_

"You're the one who started acting like a prat this morning for no—"

"—this isn't about this morning, Potter, it's about you and your bossy little need to control everything around here—"

"You knew you weren't supposed to walk around all bloody day and you did it anyway!" shouted Harry, feeling a bewildering sort of satisfaction at talking over his opponent.

The blonde stared at him in silence for a moment, apparently not aware of the fact that he'd 'lost' at anything. "Potter," came the familiar drawl, one eyebrow raised, "Just what are we arguing _about?" _

"This morning, partly. But mostly because you _had _to act like a prat—" Harry started out sounding very angry but somehow his tone had plummeted down to something softer, "and now you've gone and bloody worn yourself out, you know you won't get better any faster if you do that."

"Not about Connor?" asked Malfoy wryly, giving the tanned man a pointed look, "Not about the fact that I've tainted your Gryffindor authority and whatever else it was that you were on about?"

"Don't be stupid," answered Harry, "There's no such thing as Gryffindor authority."

"There is. Everyone else just calls it being bossy, though."

The other man found himself, somehow, with his back against the desk, Malfoy's knee brushing his elbow as he shifted arms again.

"You didn't do anything this morning," he finally admitted, "Well, it would have been nice to have some blueberry jam—"

"Get on with the apology, Malfoy."

The man turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, "What makes you think I will? You owe me one too."

Draco watched Harry smirk and say, "You owed me one first." and then made a rolling gesture with his hand, "On with it."

Relenting, finally, the slender man leaned against his shorter counterpart's shoulder as he tilted his head and lips leaning close to the soft olive-skinned shell of Potter's ear, _"I'm sorry for being a prat, Harry. Please continue to shag me."_ He made certain that it was as silky as possible.

The other man laughed. The laughter was cut short by Draco's remark—"I do think I'm owed something as well, Potter, don't think you can worm your way out of—"

Harry looked at the smug man with all the seriousness he could muster and proclaimed, "I apologise for my Gryffindor Authority, Draco. I hope you don't end our regular shags either."

He grinned and rolled his eyes. The apology itself, Malfoy pretended to seem unaffected by and just simply offered his usual curt nod in return, but Harry knew the storm had passed. Neither man said anything until the Gryffindor remembered something.

"You reckon that'll work with Hermione?"

There was a pause. "I do think you just suggested you wanted to sleep with Granger."

Harry looked at him, and smirked. "No, I'm pretty sure you're the only one I want to sleep with for the time being."

Malfoy looked at him in false concern. "Oh dear, who'll break the news to Granger?" he retorted sardonically.

"You will," answered the other man devilishly, "you owe her the apology anyway."

The blonde frowned, feeling a sense of déjà-vu.

Perhaps Granger would take _him _out for a free lunch this time.

….

_How strange! I was certain I'd uploaded this last night! This site has been glitchy lately, so I apologise to all of you that this didn't go up sooner. On the bright side, you have two chapters to read!_


	5. Chapter 5

**::13::**

Draco, whilst not enjoying all the apologizing he seemed to be doing as of late, found that it wasn't terribly difficult to do again, which was a small blessing when it came to dealing with Granger and the she-Weasel. He found himself momentarily surprised by the large stomach the red-haired woman was sporting, and kept himself from making a snide remark on how she seemed to be right on schedule for a big brood like her mother's.

"Granger," he said curtly, "I apologise for insulting your knowledge on childcare." The blonde had _really _wanted to say, _I apologise for your inability to accept criticism unless it comes out of a book, _but he supposed that wouldn't have had quite the same effect.

Unfortunately, around a short-tempered pregnant woman rife with hormones, a presence by any Malfoy was not meant to be tolerated, genuine apologies accompanying it or not. "Sod off," she hissed, right at the same time that Granger said, "Ginny, really—"

"Give us a moment, okay?" she asked her bewildered sister-in-law, and waited in silence as she took one wary glance at the two of them before leaving.

She turned her gaze back to the pale man in front of her, crossing her arms. "Made up with Harry, have you?"

Draco stared for a moment before saying, "Yes, for now. Merlin knows what—"

"Good." Granger said simply, "Keep it that way, won't you?"

Feeling thoroughly confused, the blonde was about to say anything simply to get away from her. Apparently picking up on this, she continued, "I suppose I can't really make you do anything about how you choose to act around Connor, but don't fight with Harry around him."

"Why?" he chose to ask, ignoring the obvious answers to that question.

"Bryce—"

Draco held up his hands. "Who's he?"

The woman frowned at him, as though disapproving of the fact that he didn't know every bloody person in the place. "Curly-blonde hair, about Connor's age—"

"Oh," he said, waving his hand in dismissal, "The brat. Yes, I know of him."

"Malfoy!" said Granger.

"He bloody well is," he answered, "Now on with it, please."

The woman did, albeit hesitantly. "Bryce was pushing him round a bit, calling him names," she paused, and in explanation said, "He was jealous that Ginny suggested a birthday celebration for him, Merlin knows why, his own is a few months away now, it's common to have a cake for everyone. Harry always made sure of that."

Draco found himself wondering how old Connor actually was. When would he be old enough to go to Wizarding school?

"And then what?"

"Connor punched him." She sighed, "Bryce claimed his nose was bleeding but there wasn't any blood."

Malfoy grinned. "He deserved it, you didn't see—"

"Don't encourage it!" Hermione said sharply, holding her hand up to her head, "We've managed to keep them for going at it for a second round, I don't need you riling them up." Despite saying this, his grin didn't waver.

"Oh, relax, Granger," the other man said airily, turning to leave, "It's not like I'll teach him how to use a Stinging Hex."

"You would if you could," she muttered.

Draco didn't answer, but secretly had to admit that she was right. When he walked through the door, the she-Weasel narrowed her eyes at him but said nothing else—possibly because she didn't want the younger occupants of the room to hear her few choice words.

He spied Connor attempting to slip away again, but Potter, wise to his methods, stopped him. The boy seemed to protest a bit, but the dark-haired man stayed firm, resulting in Connor slumping down to sit next to the large-boned girl, whom reminded him somewhat of Millicent Bullstrode.

Potter caught him staring and the slightest curve slipped across his lips. It was enough to lure him closer, enough to bump shoulders with him briefly as he stood beside him.

"When's Connor's birthday?" he asked. Usually Potter would have said it wasn't the time or place to ask for questions, not when one had to supervise a room of kids who, frankly, looked quite bored, even with the vast array of crayons and other craft items.

The wizard beside him glanced at the boy for a moment, trying to remember. "I'm not sure. It's in his file."

"Granger said something about birthday celebrations. Seems that he didn't get one." Draco answered airily.

Harry stayed quiet for a moment. "I must not have been here, then." He said finally, feeling a slight tinge of remorse at the realization. He wondered how many other birthdays he'd missed.

Malfoy found himself feeling the same, though he had no way of knowing the man beside him did too.

When two o' clock finally rolled around, Harry looked for Malfoy and couldn't find him. Bewildered, he asked Hermione and Ginny where he'd gone, and they, predictably, had no idea. His second thought was to ask Connor.

Pleased that his detection skills were getting better, the man strode down the dining hall, tapping the boy on the shoulder. He turned around, looking somewhat wary, as though Harry would hex him on the spot. He smiled in an attempt to ease the caution and the boy said matter-of-factly, "Draco said he'd wait for you in the car."

"Oh," the man answered, slightly taken aback, "Thanks."

Connor just nodded, looking somewhat like Malfoy when he did so. Harry, having turned and left the hall, spying the flash of brilliant blonde hair shining in the sunlight, thought again about the boy who'd grown so attached to the man lolling there.

He might as well consider him a Slytherin-in-training.

"Took you long enough," Draco drawled, giving the dark-haired man a sidelong glance as car rumbled to life.

The rest of the trip ensued of him muttering in various ways, at various intervals, "Can't you go any _faster? _Merlin knows I could fly faster than this."

Potter would always say, "No, Malfoy. We'll be there soon."

**::14::**

To say that Draco Malfoy's visit was one everyone seemed to be looking forward to, including, strangely, Malfoy himself, was an understatement. The undersecretary had left them alone for the most part, but as soon as they touched the second floor, all eyes seemed to land on Harry first, and then Malfoy second.

"I _told _you to leave the chair," muttered the blonde darkly, making sure that his gaze stayed fixed on the door of Susan Bones's office, "We could have avoided some of this."

"And I told you," murmured Harry, "that you would follow the Healer's orders."

A large and burly man stopped them. "You're going to have to come with me. There's a different…" the man paused, beady eyes glancing at the scar on Harry's forehead, "office we'll be using today."

The 'office' was, in fact, what looked to be a conference room—the sort the Ministry would use, for example, when negotiating terms on a contract. The walls were bare, but ceiling-high windows decorated one side of it, the sunlight spilling in across the rich hues of the chestnut table before them.

The man who had taken them there didn't introduce himself, even with Harry present. He had a heavy-set jaw and an underbite that gave him the appearance of a bulldog. His dark eyes landed on Malfoy's silver hair and he said, "Have a seat, if you may. They will be with you shortly."

He then left, just as curtly as he had retrieved them, making it clear that he would answer no questions.

"Well," Harry said lightly, pressing the chair forward into an open space beside a chair he'd decided was his, "That was interesting."

"Just what did you do?" exclaimed Malfoy, clearly more than a little ruffled, "all they need is the blade, this bloody thing," he gestured at the table, "is probably the chopping block!"

The blonde noted a tinge of defensiveness in Potter's eyes. "I didn't _do _anything. _You_ made the appointment."

Draco, after Harry managed to find the available times that woman could meet with them, Owled off a very short response.

_Please schedule me for a meeting at 2 'o clock tomorrow_.

_Best regards, _

_Draco Malfoy_

He doubted there was much to take offensive at with such a brief letter. Floo calling hadn't been much of a option because the Ministry had been closed, much to his relief. He supposed Weasely helped Potter with organizing the whole thing.

Mistaking Draco's pensive silence to be one of worry, Potter slipped one hand under the table, squeezing his knee. It was brief—his hand returned back shortly to the way he'd had them folded on the wooden surface, looking prim and proper.

Susan Bones all but rushed in. Her voice sounded strained, and her face expressed a sort of panic that Draco supposed could only be attributed to a mounting number of deadlines. A large stack of files were in her arms. Catching the grey stare that fixed upon them, she said, as civilly as she could, "I just came from another meeting."

Her steps echoed against the tile as she rushed around to the other side of the room, choosing to take a seat across from them. When she finally managed to sit, setting the files beside her, she had to stifle a long breath inward. The rush to get there had been arduous.

"It's good to see you, Harry," she said, smiling, her eyes clearly reflecting the same sort of bewilderment Draco supposed everyone was feeling.

The blonde, on the other hand, felt as though he'd suddenly disappeared.

Susan flicked her gaze over to Draco, as if she'd just remembered he was there, though stayed silent. She was clearly trying to find something to say, just for the sake of business, but grasped at the words until she finally said, lamely, "So, Draco, you're getting better?"

It was another way to show she'd noticed the handlebars that seemed to protrude out of his back, ones that had not been there when she'd seen him last, but regardless, he just nodded. "Who is it, exactly," he said, his tone cool, "are we waiting for? I'd made an appointment to meet with you, I don't recall making one for another."

Susan froze. She glanced over at Potter, and then forced a nervous smile, a tittering sort of laugh escaping her throat. "Well, there's more to an agreement like this, I don't have _all _the power to make a decision, that would just be…" she trailed off, patting at her throat, "A technical writer—for the contract, that is—is accompanying the Minister and his advisor. I think Auror Weasley may be attending as well."

Minister Scrimgeour had paused his duties and asked Harry personally if he could assist them in the war. Many people from the Ministry itched to join the battle, though few came forward. Kingsley Shacklebolt took his place—a turn of events the Auror hadn't expected—and upon the former Minister's death, ended up taking the position permanently. There was little outcry over it, though Shacklebolt understandably felt some mixed feelings about finally getting the career he'd wanted—at the cost of a life.

The advisor position, however, had changed hands quite a few times. It was something Ron never talked about, because out of association was his brother, Percy.

Shortly after the uprising of Dumbledore's army, Percy had simply disappeared. All that was left behind was a note of apology, which really created more questions than answered any. Some reckoned he had simply acted out of fear, some thought he had something to do with Voldemort himself, but regardless, even after nearly a year of it being over, there was no trace of him.

Many people, however, had seemed to disappear after the war—not in the ominous sense, but many had moved out of the country, or at least out of the Wizard community there. Hermione's parents had, out of memory modification, and Harry suspected that more than a few other family members had fallen prey to similar acts by their children, parents, siblings, or cousins.

A few more pairs of feet shuffled behind them as the door opened.

"Harry," said Kingsley Shacklebolt, outstretching his hand. The green-eyed stare that met his seemed startled for a moment, but he didn't neglect to complete the social ritual otherwise known as handshaking, Draco noted dryly.

All the blonde got was a simple headshake of recognition, like touching him would somehow infect them with the Dark Magic his family had been famous for fraternizing with.

The Weasel was the last to arrive, and though less stressed than Susan Bones had appeared, he still exuded a sense of anxiety. The man took the other seat by Potter, making it clear who he was there for.

"Ah, first," Shacklebolt said, after he'd greeted everyone and made certain a tray of tall glasses of water appeared on the table for them, "I must introduce you to my junior advisor. This is Edgar Sebastian. He was transferred from Norway, highly recommended."

That probably meant the Ministry was willing to take anyone, even if it was overseas, to fill positions there.

There as an awkward pause as the man simply stared back at them, his light eyes coasting over the three men in front of him silently. He had fair skin and blonde hair, though nothing like Malfoy's. His nose was sharp, his jawline prominent enough to give him a very angular appearance. After deciding he had gazed at them long enough, he said, quite softly, "Hello."

No one said it, but if the quiet, soft-spoken man was a good example of an advisor, Draco wondered just what was considered a bad example. He seemed to be the opposite of Cornelius Fudge, whom Draco personally knew had no bounds when it came to greed, and in retrospect that may have been a good thing.

"Now, I was told Luda Bagman told you of our ideal compromise on your specifications for this…partnership?" Shacklebolt's brown eyes were looking at Potter's, but the blonde answered.

"Yes. I declined." He said simply, his eyes exuding a slight iciness as the Minister's gaze met his own, and his tone making it clear he wasn't going to be easily ignored. Why anyone thought a Malfoy could be was beyond him, but regardless, he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

"I trust that Mr. Potter relayed the events clearly to you," the man said, lifting his chin up slightly, his eyes fixed on Draco now, "May I ask what specifically was it that you would want to change?"

The pale man had to try very hard not to roll his eyes in response. It was a typical response—get the opponent to repeat the same bloody thing until they gave in. "The Centre," he said crisply, "is to be supported one-hundred percent by the Ministry."

It suddenly seemed like it was only Draco and the Minister in that room, everyone else had gone so silent, not a breath was heard.

"Surely you can understand that the Ministry is spending quite a bit already on improving the community, we simply can't handle another commitment." The older man folded his hands, a sign that he had yet to be swayed by any icy stare Draco could send.

The blonde man simply raised a brow, unable to resist the sardonic glance that tumbled past, but managed to keep the laugh silent. "Like end-of-the-year boozers and weekly resorts? That sort of thing?"

Talk of a celebration for everyone in the Ministry had been going around fast—they were famous for over-the-top extravaganzas if they could find a good reason for it, and their reason this year was due to the fact that the one-year anniversary of the war's end was quickly approaching.

Shacklebolt had the decency to look somewhat flushed at the remark, but kept his cool. "There is simply no logical reason as the Ministry of Magic, Mr. Malfoy, to fund a place that allows none. Now, we're in the process of rebuilding Hogwarts, and we're all very excited—looking for new professors now, in fact. We'd be sure, of course, to help find suitable living arrangements for those that can't attend Hogwarts at the moment—I'm sure the other Ministries would be more than happy to—"

"So that's your answer?" Draco snarled, knowing he was already heading fast toward a loss by unveiling his temper, "Just sweep the others under the rug and no one's the wiser? Do you _care _at all about the fact that that's the only home they've known, the only safe place, and you're about to strip it away—"

"Draco." Harry interrupted gently. He looked at Shacklebolt who, after recovering from his surprise, seemed secretly pleased that Malfoy had let his temper get the best of him. "What he means is, these kids—they've taken a long time just to get accustomed to the centre as their new home. Most of them know they aren't getting adopted."

This seemed to add a sense of shame to Kingsley's eyes, but despite that he did not waver in his position. "Relocation is key, Mr. Potter."

"It wouldn't matter where we moved," Draco muttered, "you wouldn't spare a sickle."

"Quite the opposite, Mr. Malfoy!" answered the other man in forced cheer, "If magic was able to be used on the grounds, we would be more than happy to fund it."

The Norwegian advisor, who had been eerily silent, cut in. "May I make a suggestion, Minister?"

Shacklebolt nodded, motioning to have him speak.

"Why not formulate an agreement that, upon the destruction of Artifact—"

"Calling it a safehouse is fine," corrected Shacklebolt quickly.

The man didn't seem particularly bothered by the interruption. He nodded and continued, "Yes, sir. As I was saying, if the destruction of the safehouse does allow the ability for the children and staff to use magic, since Mr. Malfoy seems to believe it is the cause of their difficulties, why not enter a conditional agreement?"

Harry glanced at Ron, who seemed about as clueless as he felt on the matter. Malfoy still looked angry but was managing to keep it reined in.

"Conditional, you say?" murmured Shacklebolt thoughtfully, "That is a good idea." He leaned in closer to the blonde, who made no motion to do the same, and said, "What Edgar is suggesting here is that the Ministry will agree to provide the funding you're asking for, on the condition that destroying the safehouse on the property rids the inability to use magic."

Harry was wary, and Malfoy seemed like he still wanted to hex the man to another planet.

"It would mean, of course," he looked at the dark-haired wizard, probably in an attempt to gain some sort of trust by being honest, "that if the issue related to anything outside of the investigation, you would both have to use your own measures to remedy the situation and we would be unable to honor our funding agreement."

It was probably one of the most blatant rip-offs of the century, but Harry kept his thoughts to himself. "What about the Malfoy Manor? Would it be returned based on those conditions as well."

Shacklebolt waved his hands. "No, no. The Ministry has no problem with transferring the manor into your possession, Mr. Malfoy. A criminal background check with Veritaserum would clear you of any wrongdoing, and in about half a year, or upon the end of your contract and investigation with the Ministry—whichever comes first—the Manor should be cleared and ready for you."

He smiled in a way that Draco figured was supposed to be warm but really just came across forced.

"You don't have to decide now," Susan Bones supplied helpfully. She had been, alongside Ron, the quietest in the whole room. "You may certainly take your time to decide, and I could give you a copy of the tentative agreement to look over."

"Could I get a copy too?" the ginger-haired Auror beside Potter asked suddenly, and Draco glanced at him, surprised for a moment. He realized a moment after, though, that being married to Granger had some perks—if there was a valuable ally to have in such a negotiation, it was probably her.

"Mr. Malfoy would have to authorize it." Susan answered, glancing at the blonde.

"Yes, it's fine. Give him two, in fact." He answered, "I'll take one as well, thank you."

"Well, it was a pleasure," Shacklebolt said, giving only the merest glance to Draco, "Feel free to Owl with any more questions, and I hope we can agree on something soon."

The advisor gave one final glance to his opponents, and trailed after the Minister as he left.

"If you don't mind waiting for a moment, I can get those papers for you now," Susan said, looking at Draco, feeling somewhat sorry for him.

"Yes, thank you," he said distractedly, fixing his stare on the table before him.

When she finally left, and the door shut, Draco's grey eyes rose to meet Potter's, burning with a fury he'd seen only once—when he had to separate Connor and the boy who had hit him.

"Bollocks," he hissed, color rushing to his pale features, "All of it."

Harry seemed uncertain on what to say. He'd shifted his own anger away in order to not fuel Malfoy's, which was raging just fine on its own.

Ron was awkwardly standing, having risen out of his seat, feeling out of place. "I'll just…wait outside the door." Neither man appeared to hear him, because his leaving barely garnered a glance.

"They think they're so much better than Voldemort," Malfoy spat out, ignoring the surprise that registered on Harry's face—he didn't seem to realize that their privacy wasn't entirely assured, not at a place like the Ministry and certainly not when Draco Malfoy was involved.

"Draco," Harry said, "Not here."

The blonde nearly snapped at that, but a sudden realization stopped him from it. Who at the Ministry _wouldn't _have made certain someone could overhear? He smiled grimly at the other wizard, and nodded. "Right."

Susan Bones came in, interrupting them. She handed them a folder. "There's two copies of it in there. I didn't know if you'd want another for Harry." The woman paused, as if waiting would make them any more likely to admit that they would be returning to the same flat.

"Thank you," Harry said finally, rising to his feet.

She ended up leaving the room after them, with Malfoy out first. Ron, right where he said he'd be, followed the two men out, turning 'round to wave to Susan and tell her to say hello to Terry.

No one spoke until they reached the parking lot. Harry applied a shrinking charm to the chair and had a much easier time of putting it in the car—why he hadn't thought of it earlier in the morning escaped him.

"I'll have Hermione look at it," Ron said, looking at his friend, "See if she has any suggestions."

Harry nodded. "Thanks, Ron." He looked behind him, at the blonde in the passenger seat. Malfoy had retreated to the car, where the door slammed loudly.

"Er," came Ron's hushed whisper, as he craned his neck over to look at Malfoy, "if he asks you, don't tell him you got it from me, yeah?"

"Wh—" the green-eyed man started, interrupted by a box in Ron's hands, pressing into his own. A very familiar box. "How did you—"

"Another time, mate. Go home." The man said, making certain the box was hidden from view before stepping away.

In a strange twist of fate, Harry Potter found himself again in the possession of Draco Malfoy's wand.


	6. Chapter 6

**::15::**

Wordlessly, and perhaps predictably, Draco left the car as soon as it stopped in front of their flat, not bothering to wait for Potter. He needed a long bath, and he wanted it alone. The dark-haired wizard didn't call after him.

He made sure to lock the door behind him, in case the other man did plan to attempt to reassure him or whatever it was Gryffindors did.

The steam rose in the room, fogging the mirror as he loosened his tie. His features were an unfocused myriad of colors, his eyes seeming like hollow circles. As the layers of clothing fell to the floor, rustling slightly against the pale green tile, he distracted himself by trying to decide on which bath salts to use.

About to reach over for the white cylinder ('French Vanilla') Draco paused, deciding another attempt at wandless magic wouldn't hurt. It wasn't as if the day could get much worse anyway. He held his hand in the direction of the bottle. It should have been fluid—rising languidly through the air until he decided otherwise, but instead the bottle shivered as it rose, and tipped forward sharply, emptying its contents, and then, as though it were fatigued, sailed down into the water.

He frowned, and removed the bobbing object from his bath. On one hand, he supposed it was a good sign that he could do anything. On the other, he reckoned even Longbottom could have done better than that—not to mention that his water was oversaturated with bath salts now.

Ignoring this fact, he turned off the water and slowly lowered himself into it, the heat seeping into his sore muscles and smoothing some of the achiness away. He turned his thoughts to his troubles, inspecting every possible solution and outcome, every risk and reward. Even with a list in his mind he had no idea what the right answer was.

Meanwhile, Harry found himself tidying up the box Draco's wand was in. Had he been the sort to keep wrapping paper or ribbon around, there would have been more to it, but the Gryffindor supposed it wouldn't matter in the end. He would have his wand back.

He decided leaving it on the blonde's pillow would bring its discovery soon. Kicking off his shoes and tiptoeing down to the bedroom, just past the room where he could hear the sound of the tap being turned off, he set it there. This action didn't drag out the night in its entirety, of course, so Harry found himself at the kitchen counter, trying to read the contract Susan Bones had given them. The words, whilst in perfect English, seemed like runes to him.

The thought of Susan Bones brought his mind to idly wonder about why she had kept her surname after marrying Terry. It wasn't a particularly interesting thing to ruminate over, but it was enough to keep the sense of gnawing indignation and concern that was snarling at him. Whilst working out a few possible scenarios for Susan's decision, his stomach growled, tugging him away from his thoughts and his eyes away from the papers in front of him.

He sighed, and rummaged through a few shelves and the refrigerator before giving up. It wasn't too late, and Harry found himself scrawling a short note on the counter, telling Draco he'd gone to the grocery and would be back soon. He thought to add a post-script about the wand, but decided against it. The blonde would find it just fine on his own.

The muffled sound of a car leaving the parking lot in front of their flat wasn't anything special, so the blonde man didn't think much of it, far too deep in his own thoughts to entertain anything else. After the water had grown lukewarm, and his stomach was rumbling, Draco decided that his bath was over, missing the way heating charms would extend the life of one.

After drying his hair and the rest of his body with a towel that he wrapped around his waist, pausing only to gather the crumpled clothing on the floor, the chill that entered his warm haven caused goosebumps to rise, and Draco rushed to the bedroom, tossing his dirtied clothes in the hamper and tucking his shoes beneath his dresser. Gathering the warmest socks and sleepwear combination he could find, the man thought it pertinent to dress as quickly as possible.

He rubbed his arms after he had dressed, bringing heat to them. His legs moved backward, searching for the familiar surface of the bed—Draco, having miscalculated, found himself toppling backward against the surface, a fleeting panic rushing through him as he did so.

Something scratched him across the cheek, a long, raised line trailing after it, and with irritation his hand wrapped around it. A sort of rage had been awoken by the unwelcome intruder, and he nearly hurled the item against the wall, thinking it to be of Potter's carelessness that it had been there.

But the familiar shine of the box—a dark grey, nearly seeming black in the low light of the room, caught his eye. Shifting his grasp on it, a familiar family crest greeted him. The Malfoy family crest. It was slim, narrower than a spectacle case, designed to fit in an inner pocket.

He'd never thought about it, really—Draco had assumed his wand destroyed after what was left of Potter's apartment, because there'd never really been a distinction of whether or not the wand was in its case when the man had found it.

It made sense now, though. Lucius had the means and the ability to ensure a heavy amount of shielding charms with those cases—he'd gotten them specially designed. Anti-theft, on the other hand, was something Draco supposed his father didn't think would be a problem. Draco had never gone anywhere without his wand.

He found himself trembling. Every bit of his body, straight down to his heart, _knew _it was his wand. There was still a sense of trepidation as he opened it. His chest felt like it had opened up, his heart gone and soared somewhere in the sky. It was there.

Licking his lips, and picking it up firmly, the familiarity of it all causing him to tremble again, but in happiness this time. _"Lumos," _he whispered, and the shadows of the room were chased away as a light glowed.

Draco thought it was, perhaps, the most beautiful thing he had seen.

**::16::**

Harry had made certain to get blueberry jam (despite it being more expensive) and milk immediately. He found himself unable to focus on whether or not they truly needed crisps, so the total amount of items fit into two bags, each light and clanging against his legs as he walked.

He saw the blonde hair first, lit up in the kitchen. He turned to lock the door behind him, and then went to the fridge, where he deposited the milk in its rightful place. Beside Draco now, who had been silent despite his arrival, he said, reaching up to open the cupboard where the jams resided, "I didn't get a lot, there wasn't much I could think of getting. You'll have to come with me next time."

"You don't have eggs, do you?" the blonde asked suddenly.

Harry felt a wave of bewilderment crash through him. "No, I wasn't—"

The blonde didn't seem to care about the end of that sentence, because he pushed him up, ignoring the clatter of the rest of what Potter had been carrying on the floor, he murmured, "Good, because I didn't want you dropping them," and kissed him in a way that certainly did not suggest he was harboring any sort of anxiety, anger, or sadness. The raven-haired man, fully enjoying the feeling of being ravished, allowed himself to indulge in the somewhat strange turn of events before parting from him.

"You found your wand, then? I wasn't hiding it, I just got it earlier today and, well I—"

"Shut up, Potter, I don't care." Said Draco huskily, before leaning in again.

As he was being led to the bedroom, Harry heard himself asking, "What about the meeting, and the contract and everything?"

"All in due time, Potter," answered Malfoy smoothly, glancing at him to catch the reaction he had to the room. A series of three jars situated around the bed—one on the side-table, one on each dresser—each housing a familiar blue flame.

Harry wondered if he had known about his personal affinity for that charm.

As they tumbled upon the bed, Draco on his back, arms curled around Harry's midriff, he said, quite seriously, only the slight tinge of a smile giving him away, "Now, don't expect this all the time, Potter. Such romantic gestures are only available annually," he said.

The raven-haired man leaned in, kissing him. Any sort of jest was completely discarded as the heat between them stirred, prompting the typical frantic removal of clothing and the slight gasps between clashing lips.

It was there, in that room, perhaps with the bluebells as an ally, that all the awful events of the day were put on pause, chased away from their thoughts.

As though they were the only two there, nothing else seemed to exist.

**::17::**

If there was one thing that seemed absolutely vital after a somewhat spectacular romp, both Harry and Draco had to agree that it was food.

Since getting his wand, the blonde used every chance and excuse to use it. He didn't tell Harry about the somewhat strange mishap with his wandless magic earlier, and with his wand, simple things like stirring pasta in a pot of merrily boiling water, everything seemed to be as smooth as they should have been. Part of him wondered if he had been out of practice, but it seemed like he'd never truly been able to forget magic. It was part of his heritage.

Potter seemed to find his behavior amusing—the way he smiled as Draco levitated a piece of garlic bread on a plate, he looked torn between being happy for him and simply finding it…cute. The pale man wrinkled his nose at the thought. _Cute _was not an adjective that coincided with Malfoys.

Thusly, he ignored it and made the meal with his wand as much as he could. The only thing he decided to not use it for was pouring the sauce on the steaming bowl in front of him.

The papers that the Ministry had given them were pushed aside, safely tucked away in the far corner of the counter. It seemed to stare at him throughout the whole meal, and Draco greatly unappreciated the intrusion with such a joyous occasion.

Both men knew it was impossible to avoid, so when Potter said, "What do you think we should do?" Draco stopped himself from making a snarky comment.

He did, however, chew his food as slowly as possible. Moments later, he answered the wizard's query.

"It might be too much of a risk," he said softly, "We both know it's _probably _the safehouse causing all of these problems, but what if, somehow, it wasn't? What if the Ministry finds a loophole and screw us over? The kids don't deserve that."

Harry nodded. "You'll be the one finding the answers, though. You're good at wizardry and you know it. If there's any sliver of a chance that those things can be destroyed, I know you'll find it."

Malfoy looked pleased at the compliment, but a shadow of doubt quickly overcame it. "What if I don't, Potter? Sometimes our best isn't good enough, you know that."

The other man was quiet for a moment, the comment reminding him of all those that died during the war. Dumbledore, Snape, Seamus, and countless others. That wasn't including those who had gone missing during it, and were now presumed dead.

"Yeah, I know," he murmured quietly, shifting his eyes to his plate, where the food had quickly become unappetizing. He took another bite, simply because it occupied him and he didn't want Draco thinking that he didn't like it.

"If you don't want to agree to that, then what will you do?" The green eyes searched the weary grey ones of his counterpart. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of that color.

"The Manor. We could ask for them to give it to us sooner, so we can prepare faster and get the kids away from it all." A sense of hesitation had crept into the answer—the man wasn't sure how Harry would respond to that.

A hand rested on pale skin, one finger brushing past a love bruise on Draco's shoulder. It was a light, feathery touch. "That's yours. It's…" the man paused, wondering how to phrase his thought. "Your family would have wanted you to have it. The sheer amount of memories there, Draco—the connection it has to your loved ones…"

Harry looked away, not wanting to admit that he envied Malfoy's ability to have such a tie to two of the people he held dearest.

"They're not all good memories, Harry," came the whisper. It cracked on _good, _like a burst of pain had struck him when he said it. "Maybe it's time to leave those things behind. Give it a chance to be something better."

The searching gaze from Potter rose again. "Doesn't it scare you, to give up something like that?" It was a curious question. The blonde supposed the savior, despite all that he had given to the world, would never truly know such ties to his family—at least, ties to his family history.

"Yes," he admitted, "I don't want to forget them, I don't want to lose them. That might be one place they exist, perhaps one of the strongest proofs of their existence, but it's not all."

"There's still you," Harry said, finishing his thought.

Draco began sending off their dishes to the sink, but the other wizard didn't find it amusing that time. Harry knew it was his way of trying to distance himself from the storm of memories and feelings that he'd managed to stifle for a short time earlier.

"It's your decision, Draco. Whatever you want to do…" the words trailed off as the slender man propped his chin up on his hand, sighing deeply. Torment was surrounding him.

He was momentarily distracted by those things as a warm hand took his own. It squeezed with his. His head turned and his hand moved to accommodate the shift.

"Whatever you decide, know that we can do it." Harry said finally, a flash of determination in his eyes.

Draco smiled slightly, the tinge of weariness and worry not leaving his gaze. "You always were too stubborn for your own good."


	7. Chapter 7

**::18::**

Draco found, much to his chagrin, that he was no closer to a decision when the morning sun shone past the drapes. He also found that for the first time in a long time, he was dreading going to the centre. His final check-in with the healer was this morning, and whilst he would normally scowl at the thought of going, it was actually a sort of blessing in disguise.

A shower, whilst usually appealing to him, didn't seem worth the effort, so he decided he would wash his face and leave the shower for later.

Dressing was far much faster with a wand—the tie could tie itself, his hair could be sorted out much faster, and overall, the joy he'd found over being able to use magic again hadn't wavered, even despite the other aspects of his life that seemed to be going straight to shit.

Potter stuck his head out the bathroom door, presumably to see if the blonde had roused at all. His hair, damp, seemed wilder than usual and the bridge of his glasses hung askew on his nose. "Hey," he said shortly, and then disappeared again.

All but sauntering down the hall, leaning against the frame of the door, he watched as the other man began buttoning up his shirt hurriedly. "What is it, Potter, that you seem to be in such a rush for?" he drawled, eyebrow raised.

"The drive to Mungo's is—"

Grey eyes regarded him in what appeared to be a mixture of disbelief and slight disdain. "We can _disapparate, _you know. We don't have to go everywhere in that car of yours."

"Yeah," Harry admitted after a moment's pause, "we could. It's been a while, though, I mean—"

"_Yes, _Potter," interjected Malfoy again, rolling his eyes, "I can very well handle it." As if to prove his point, he disappeared in a flash, calling back from the kitchen with more than a hint of smugness in his tone, "See?"

Harry rolled his eyes, choosing to brush his teeth instead of respond.

The blonde man, humming a tune of no real particularity, opened the cupboard next to the toaster and smiled. Next to the detested apricot jam was a new jar of blueberry.

Perhaps today wouldn't be as dreadful as he thought it would be.

**::19::**

"Well," said Michael Corner, who stepped back from the blonde man wearing a very bored look in front of him, "Everything seems to be on target. Just make sure you don't overexert yourself," he shot a look at Harry after that, "and make sure to eat as healthy as possible. You'll be back to your usual state soon enough."

"Does that mean the wheelchair is unnecessary?" Harry had made certain to ask.

"Well, if he's getting around all right, and has plenty of opportunities to rest, I don't see why it would be." The raven-haired man stared at the Slytherin pointedly, causing Michael to lose his track of thought for a moment.

Neither man seemed to notice—if there was one thing everyone but the two men seemed to know, it was that their silent banter could go on for much longer than necessary. Forget about even trying to include someone—with Malfoy and Harry, a third visitor was simply not possible.

It put their rivalry, in retrospect, in a new light.

"How long?" asked Draco suddenly, abandoning the look of boredom he'd had, "until I could, say, work full-time with _potential…_risks?"

The healer furrowed his brow, slightly confused. "What sort of risks?"

"Dark Arts artifacts. Maybe some explosions. No one really knows yet." Threw in Potter, half-joking.

Corner didn't seem to realize that because his eyes widened in response. "Er, I'm not sure I'd recommend anything that requires heavy physical labor or the ability to…_run _from such things for at least another six months, the stamina alone—"

"I have plenty of stamina," interrupted Draco, the frown on his lips showing the offense he'd taken to the comment.

"He does," Harry supported cheekily, well aware of the tinge of red that was creeping up the healer's neck. _Good Merlin, _the raven-haired man thought, _I'm turning into Malfoy._

"Well, all I can really suggest," said Michael hastily, "is to avoid overexertion, and that I don't think a high-risk profession would be a wise idea at this point."

Malfoy simply nodded at that, the look in his eyes clearly dismissive, but the healer seemed not to think the effort of convincing him to take the advice seriously a wise move. Draco Malfoy was stubborn, he'd seen plenty of examples of it at Hogwarts. Trying to convince him was like trying to talk to a wall.

"I hope to see you in six months then," he said cordially, and silently thought, _please don't let it be any sooner. _

With this, his two former classmates left, leaving a sense of relief behind them.

Draco hadn't particularly minded disapparation at all, but it seemed that Potter had never really grown accustomed to it. He reeled slightly as they appeared at the flat again, looking somewhat sick.

Though the blonde saw no reason to not simply go straight to the centre via disapparation, he still wasn't feeling very confident in going. When Harry adamantly said he was driving there, Draco simply made a quip about his motion sickness and grabbed a ginger beer from the fridge, handing it to the man who was currently leaning against the counter.

The drink eased his sickness, but he wasn't entirely feeling better when they left. Malfoy, catching this, said, with a wide grin, "Want me to drive?"

The other man scowled, turning the key in the ignition. As it rumbled beneath him, his passenger heard him mutter, _"You drive? Really, Malfoy." _

They'd gone the whole trip without one drawling quip to fill the silence. At the flat and at Mungo's, Harry supposed, the weight of the decision Malfoy needed to make was at a distance. Here, though—with Connor peering anxiously through the library window, as though willing the blonde man to get out of the car faster—it was crushing him.

Spying Harry's glance, the boy waved, and as he waved back, he murmured to the man on his left, "Someone's waiting to see you."

Looking as though he'd forgotten where he was, Malfoy frowned at the comment before the split-second realization hit him. "What's he so excited about, Potter? What did you _do?" _

The messy-haired man shrugged. "Maybe he just missed you this morning."

Draco grabbed the olive-skinned man's wrist, pushing up his sleeve to look at the time. He'd never personally liked watches, it was convenient that Potter chose to wear one. "We're barely forty-five minutes later than usual," he proclaimed, and then brought his stare up to meet the amused green ones, "What did you do? I know it you missed his birthday but really, couldn't you have asked for my input, you barely know how to—"

"Draco," began Potter patiently, finally catching on to his tactic. He took his wrist back, "I haven't done anything. The longer we stay out here, the stranger it'll seem. They probably need our help anyway."

The Slytherin seemed to relent, catching sight of Connor, who rolled his eyes. Eight-year-olds had no sense of time, so he reckoned thirty seconds felt like hours.

At the entrance, the two men found themselves immediately parted. Draco went to attend to whatever it was that Connor seemed so excited about, and Hermione swooped down on Harry the instant she saw him. She was wearing a very familiar expression and when she said, "I need you and Malfoy to come to dinner," he knew it wasn't going to be a fun one. It would involve a lecture, some books, and quite possibly a poster.

"W-well," said the savior, slightly jarred by her seemingly appearing out of nowhere, "I'll see what I can do, I don't know what Draco's plans are."

The bushy haired woman's eyebrows raised at that. She didn't think she'd ever heard Harry simply say _Draco. _Not, at least, without some sort of malice or rage. Well, it was nothing to get distracted about—she regained her focus. Marching past her friend, straight into the library, and apparently not caring about the conversation she was interrupting, she said, "Malfoy. You're coming to my house for dinner at six. Don't forget."

And then Hermione simply turned around and left, ignoring the attempt of resistance her rival tried to give. _One way to always get what you want, _she thought, _don't let them argue. _

After she'd left, Connor turned to him and whispered, "Mrs. Weasley tells us not to be bossy, but I don't think she knows how much she is,"

"Oh, she knows, all right," countered Draco dryly.

It didn't keep the eight-year-old's attention for long. The reason for his barely-contained excitement was a ripped page from that day's paper. In the center of the page was an advertisement with bold letters, and a moving picture of tussling puppies.

Crup puppies, to be exact.

It had hit the older man quickly on what it was Connor had gotten so excited about, and it was combined with a sinking feeling. He found himself remembering a similar conversation with his father.

"_I'll take care of it, I'll feed it, I'll give it water—"_

"_Take care of it? Like you took care of that chess set I gave you, currently sitting in some corner of your room?"_

_Draco looked aghast. "Those aren't living things, father!"_

_The taller man stared down at him sternly, not wavered by the writhing dog that was currently tugging at his pantleg. "And what will happen when you go off to Hogwarts? Surely you don't intend to have _me _look after it."_

_His son looked proud of himself, as though he'd figured that out already. "You'll just have to write a letter, and tell Dumbledore I'll be bringing Abraxas with me."_

_Lucius didn't doubt for a moment that his son's choice of a name for his newfound friend was intended to have him give in. Magical or not, it was common for young boys to have pet dogs. Even he'd had one._

_Even so, he had some trepidation. The elder Malfoy ignored this, however, and simply sighed nonchalantly. "If you must. But don't you dare let that thing track dirt in the manor."_

Connor was going about fifty million miles an hour, and Draco had found that he wasn't listening. It was clear enough, though, by the boy's tone on what he meant.

"—you miss Albus and everything, and I know you had a Crup—"

"Connor," the man interjected, deciding to interrupt now rather than let him finish, because that would just bring his hopes up even more, "I can't get a Crup."

"You didn't even look, it says—" he held up the ad again, where _For Sale Now _was emblazoned.

Draco held his hand up. "I'm sorry, Connor, I can't afford this. I could barely afford—" he stopped short.

"But you're living with Harry, now, right?" the boy said quietly, "and I bet he misses Albus too. You could get one together. Friends can share a pet, can't they?"

_A bit more than friends, I'd say, _thought Malfoy dryly, but he said, "Look, I'll make you a deal."

"Okay," said Connor, clearly not convinced he would find it as good as the one he proposed.

"When," _If, _mused Draco, as he continued, "Harry and I decide we want another dog, we'll have you help look."

"Soon," said his younger counterpart, apparently needing to make sure it wasn't a long-term sort of deal.

"I'll talk to Harry about it later," answered the man, who tousled his hair before he could stop him. It was getting long, and was past his eyes now. Perhaps he would talk to Granger about a haircut for those who needed it. Including her.

When Malfoy went to accompany Connor to the dining hall, Harry caught him, waiting for the boy to rejoin his peers. "Hey," he said, his hand on the other man's arm.

"Is there a particular reason I happen to be standing here, suspiciously close to you, in the eyeshot of over a dozen children?" asked Draco dryly, with one brow raised. The other man stepped back.

"I wanted to know what was going on with—"

"He wants a dog," Draco sighed, and upon looking at Potter's bewildered expression, continued, "Well, he wants _us _to get a dog." He held handed the man the ad that Connor had given him.

"What'd you say?" Harry asked.

"I said it wasn't going to happen," the other man winced, but Malfoy ignored it, rolling his eyes, "_but _that when it did, I'd let him help us. Said I'd talk to you about it too." He paused, a dry smile on his face, "This is us talking about it."

The pale man caught Connor staring at them, as if he was trying to decipher their words from afar. _Definitely a Slytherin, _he thought, with a small sense of pride.

"Well, we could always consider it, I suppose. For later, I mean."

Malfoy rose a brow at that. "Planning on springing for a ring, too?" he remarked, smirking.

"Don't be silly," Harry shot back, managing to not be caught off-guard by his response, "_You're _the one who'd have to buy the rings."

"Because you wouldn't know a good one if it bit you in the arse," Malfoy drawled.

Harry silently knew it was probably true.

"I wonder if I can find one charmed to do that…" he said, suddenly thoughtful.

Harry, in the corner of his eye, caught the girl Malfoy had secretly dubbed 'Bulstrode' trying to sneak into the kitchens again, probably to get sweets. He immediately went after her, and, perhaps unwisely, left Draco to his musing.

**::20::**

Dinner with Weasley and Granger was something Draco had completely forgotten about for the remainder of the day. The kids, getting restless, were constantly getting into squabbles over silly things like crayons. It didn't take a genius to realize that the longer they were forced into one room all day, the more they would act out.

"Can't we just take them to the park or something?" Malfoy asked irritably, hearing Bryce's telltale shriek for the fortieth time.

Hermione stared at him like he was mentally deficient. "No, Malfoy. We can't. In case you haven't noticed, we've barely enough people keep this place running, and it's not like you and Harry can take on twenty-five kids by yourselves."

Was it really that few? Draco looked at the group again. How could chaos make it seem like they'd multiplied?

"Well, we've got to do something, Granger." He snapped, "They're going mad."

Harry had gone off to help the Weasel's sister for a while—it seemed that she needed to rotate partners because her hormonal temperament was getting to everyone. Or she could have been perfectly normal and it was all the children screaming in the background that bothered her, though Draco was willing to wager that wasn't the case.

"I was going to wait until dinner to tell you this," she said, "but in that contract? The Ministry's stating that they'll need ninety to one-hundred-and-eighty business days to approve funding of the centre—that's _after _you've done your part."

Draco decided Granger still looked rather terrifying when angry at someone else. "They've chalked it up to 'investigatory purposes' to make sure 'everything's in working order'. Really! They might as well just dump us all out on the bloody street!"

Hearing her name being called, she snapped her head up, finding that her friend was interrupting them. "Don't tell Harry yet," she hissed to the man next to her before leaving to go back to the kitchen.

"What's wrong?" asked the Gryffindor. Draco rolled his eyes, thinking that sometimes he was far too predictable.

"Nothing." The blonde answered lightly, and scowled in the direction of Bryce, "That child has a scream like a banshee and _Merlin _what I wouldn't do to put a silencing charm on him."

"You're just mad they won't sit still anymore and listen to your exaggerated stories," teased Harry. "You liked the attention."

"Potter?" Draco asked, after Bryce began shrieking again.

"Hm?"

"We need new entertainment."

The man next to him groaned. "Stop reminding me!"

He looked at him, a stern expression on his face. "How attached are you to that television set of yours?"

"I like watching…" he trailed off, "Draco, the screen's not nearly large enough for twenty-five kids."

The blonde watched as a girl caused a bottle of glitter to explode on the boy next to her. He stared at the savior dryly. "Somehow I think they'll manage. Give me your wallet."

Harry hesitated. "Why?"

His counterpart seemed to think this a stupid question. "I've got to go rent the bloody films, don't I?"

That made the man pause further. "You won't get a scary one, will you?"

Pale hands waved the remark away dismissively. "Of course not. We'll get that—er, what's the one with the fish and…well, more fish?"

Harry's green eyes simply stared blankly at his in response.

"The one with the lost clownfish. C'mon, Harry, even the Wizarding world knew about that one."

Realization crossed the man's features. "Finding Nemo?"

"Yes, you go and tell Granger. Oh, and you'll be getting the television…and, I dunno, I'll get whatever other film has adorable creatures on the cover."

"Okay—" Harry began hesitantly, and was about to add that he didn't want Draco getting more than two or three movies, but the man had bolted outside and disapparated in seconds.

The dark-haired wizard sighed. Hermione wouldn't like this—she didn't think television should be used solely as a 'babysitter'. Upon him telling her their plan, the woman frowned, clearly fully planning on a lecture, but he dragged her out to attend to Bryce's wailing, and was gone before she could say anything.

Later, amidst her complaints, he would slyly tell her that she had taught him that tactic.


	8. Chapter 8

**::21::**

In some ways, Draco's idea was pure genius. The rest of the day was considerably quieter, with twenty-five eyes all gazing glassy-eyed at the screen, some mouths hanging open out of the pure sedentary aspect of the day. Even Hermione had to grudgingly admit it was quite nice, for once, to have a quiet day.

In some ways, Draco's idea was a very, very bad one.

"Dammit, Malfoy," hissed Harry, "I thought you were going to stick to cuddly creatures!"

"Hey!" the blonde yelped defensively, trying to manage the five children clinging to him at once, "There was a puppy on the cover!"

"_Marley and Me?" _muttered the other man, "could you have made a worse choice? Especially with—" he stopped. "You-know-who."

"Who, Voldemort?" whispered the Slytherin in response, "Yes, I bloody well know! Stop making me feel worse than I already do!"

Ginny, seemingly calmed down from her hormonal rage at the man in question, managed to save the day by reiterating that the dog had a long and happy life (actually, that just resulted in more tears) but then hastily mentioned that there were some cakes and pies on their way to the centre, and everyone was allowed to have _two _helpings.

Thirty minutes later, the noisemakers apparently soothed by sugar, everyone under the age of eleven or twelve could heave a sigh of relief.

Draco had even forgotten, for a moment, about what Hermione had told him. As the end of the day approached, though, and especially when he had to bid Connor farewell (he was especially sullen today), it hit him that he would soon be walking into a much darker nightmare. Suddenly screaming children seemed to be like a dream.

Potter kept giving him furtive looks as they stopped by their flat, simply to drop off the car (Granger and the Weasel's place was apparently not within a reasonable driving distance).

Finally, he'd had enough and informed the green stare landing on his skin again, "You're not very sneaky when you keep glancing at me every five seconds,"

There was wind curling around them, rustling through the dark hair that refused to be tamable. As if Potter's hair were a living creature, it seemed to _enjoy _the breeze that whipped through, messing up his hair further. He shrugged, apparently not noticing the change in his hair, and said, "You just seem…off. Somehow. That's all." Harry paused, looking at the pale man again, "It wasn't your fault, you know. Earlier, with the movie and all."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, so you have said." He joined hands with the man next to him, and the owlish gaze that occurred prompted him to remark, "I don't know where I'm going, you know."

Blinking for a moment, and then realizing he was referring to disapparation, Harry chose not to answer, and just like that, they had simply disappeared.

**::22::**

Hermione was the one that answered the door. She smiled at the both of them, though her gaze on Malfoy lasted longer. He shot her a look. The woman took that to mean Harry didn't know, after all.

"Dinner's almost ready," she said, "You can hang your jackets up there and—well, Harry, you can show him where the dining room is."

Malfoy looked around, presumably to see what quality they seemed to live in. They'd recently moved into a bigger place, apparently—it wasn't a flat, but a house. It was a fairly nice home, the man had to admit, with two floors not including the basement and the attic. He secretly wondered if Weasley's job with the Ministry had helped him secure a much better deal.

The front door led to a spacious living room, with bookshelves lining every spare wall, and on the left, against one of the larger bookshelves, was a couch. It created a ninety-degree angle, completing the room rather tastefully. Past the living area opposite of the island in the kitchen—it was open, so the kitchen was visible from it—was a corridor that Malfoy presumed led to the basement and perhaps a bathroom.

Harry took his hand and led him between the living room and kitchen area. There was actually another corridor. Unlike the other, there were pictures hanging on both sides of the wall—Draco couldn't catch them all, but they seemed to be mostly of family and friends. He noticed Potter was in a few of them. The man led him to a very large dining table—it could seat at least sixteen people. With a family like the Weasleys, more space at the table was necessary.

Malfoy seated himself and a wineglass appeared the moment he sat down. He glanced at Harry, who'd settled beside him and he, too, had one. The wine, however, had yet to come.

As if it read his mind, plates and utensils soon followed.

Neither man said anything. Draco wasn't sure that he could have said anything without it being insulting in some way or another, and he figured there would be enough drama occurring soon enough. Potter, ever-predictable and so very Gryffindor, squeezed his knee.

It was reassuring, in a way, but the blonde would never admit it.

The front door slammed behind them, the sound muffled from where they sat, but it was obvious all the same.

"Sorry, 'Mione," said Ron breathlessly, "there was—"

His wife waved his comment away. "I'm just glad you're here." She gave him a large bowl of salad and gently pushed him toward the dining room, where one of his favorite people happened to be—as well as one of his least favorite.

The Auror chose the set opposite of Harry, placing the bowl directly in the center of them. No one made a move toward it, and the wineglass that appeared for him toppled over, breaking at the impact of the table.

Draco couldn't help but smirk at that, though Potter nudged him sharply, keeping him from saying anything. The Weasel repaired the object soon enough.

The silence lasted until Hermione finally brought in the rest of the meal, which was a roast of some kind with smashed potatoes. She didn't seem to notice the silence at first, but after she'd sat down, she saw that no one made a move toward the food.

"I didn't poison it or anything," she said lightly, "go on, then." The woman dished up a serving of potatoes, and then passed the bowl across the table, to Malfoy. He took it from her grasp wordlessly, dishing up enough to seem polite and handed it to the saviour beside him.

Ron's eyes followed his wife's, meeting Draco's gaze for a moment. The auror looked away quickly—he still wasn't entirely fond of the idea of the man being under his roof.

"Why am I getting the idea that there's something everyone knows but me?" Harry finally proclaimed, after the roast had been passed around.

The pale man shot a look at Granger, as if saying, _I'm not the one opening this can of worms. _The woman gave him a withering stare in response, but decided to go forward in the explanations that Harry was requesting.

"There's a loophole in the contract," she said finally, "one that could, potentially, allow the Ministry hold up their end of the deal even if Malfoy ended this whole mess with those safehouses in a day."

"What kind?" he asked evenly, and Draco knew it was only a matter of time before his anger would show—Potter, perhaps rightly so, was going to be quite angry tonight.

He supposed it was a very good thing that they did not own a couch at their flat.

"An investigation of three to six months to make 'certain' everything's as it should be—in other words, any excuse they can find to _not _uphold their end, they'll find it." Hermione sighed, the frustration and stress she'd been holding back finally crushing down upon her.

Green eyes narrowed at the man beside him. "How long have you known?"

"Harry," Hermione said, coming to Malfoy's rescue, "I asked him not to, and it really was only earlier today. It's not like he's known for weeks."

That seemed to placate the dark-haired wizard somewhat, but not enough to make him murmur, "You're supposed to be my best friends," he said quietly, "next time, just tell me too, okay?"

"Malfoy's your best friend too, now?" exclaimed Ron, apparently finding that development strangely hard to deal with.

"Boyfriends can be best friends too," the blonde argued, a slight sneer on his face, "It doesn't mean I have to spend all my time with you, nor does he have to spend it all with me—Harry's a big boy now, I'm sure he can handle it."

Hermione had to admit that, even with the sneer and the disdain, the blonde made a very good point. It almost impressed her, because it was so very close to a mature handling of Ron's unreasonableness.

Harry, on the other hand, was having a very hard time not letting the biggest smile cross his face. Neither one of them had really referred to each other as a _boyfriend _yet, and the fact that Draco had said it first, for some ridiculous reason, made him want to cut that dinner short and snog him senseless.

The ginger-haired man was glaring at his plate, and Hermione was looking at him with exasperation. As much as she could understand her husband's fears of losing his best friend, especially with all the losses that the war had brought, it did get to her at times. But she supposed it was his stubbornness that attracted her to him in the first place.

Draco glanced at Potter, who was also looking down at his place, trying (and very unsuccessfully) to hide the smile of elation on his face. He brought one pale hand down, and beneath the table, gave his knee a momentary squeeze.

That made Harry want to snog him all the more, but he knew that there were more important matters at hand and they couldn't be ignored.

"So, Granger," Draco began, ignoring the slight flinch her husband heard when his enemy referred to her by that name, "Is there any way we can compromise with them again to get rid of that loophole?"

The woman didn't answer, thinking as she chewed some of her food. "I've been looking up cases, even using the internet, but nothing really fits—at least, nothing for the Wizarding world. There's plenty of similar cases with Muggles of companies taking advantage of their consumers, but nothing closer than that. It might be the first of our kind—probably because of the special circumstances of the war."

"So we're screwed, in other words?" remarked Draco dryly.

The Weasel looked outraged at that. "She's doing all this work for you, the least you could do is _appreciate _it, you git."

"Never said I didn't," drawled the blonde, one hand reaching over and clamp over his boyfriend's mouth to stop him from answering.

"Never said you _did, _either," snapped the ginger-haired Auror.

The woman at the table, and perhaps the most reasonable, shouted, "Enough! Ron, keep your comments to yourself, and Malfoy, you too." Each man obeyed somewhat awkwardly.

"And furthermore, to your earlier question, we aren't _screwed." _She said, seeming somewhat put-off by the implication that her researching abilities and willingness to take a stand didn't seem enough, "We'll just have a long battle on our hands. I think we can do it, Malfoy, I really do."

"In how long, though?" he countered, "How long are those kids going to have to cooped up in that place, without lessons, without any semblance of a schedule? It's a _prison _now, Granger. Believe me, I'd love to prove the Ministry wrong and embarrass the hell out of them, but the length of time that'll take—is it worth it?"

Harry cocked his head, looking at the man beside him. "If you move them to the Malfoy manor, though, it won't mean that all our troubles would be over. Some might find it distasteful, and there could be a large backlash, just like the one we're dealing with now."

"You'd move them _there?_" blurted out Ron, "How is _that _a good idea?"

"The place has been swept by numerous Aurors and Dark Arts specialists analyzing it to death," said Hermione, "You know that. There's no trace of any of it."

Draco suddenly thought of something. "The safehouses—no one knows how far they go. It wouldn't surprise me if there was one there, or at least a portkey to get to the Nevada desert." The memory of that place flashed through his mind—he didn't think he'd ever be able to make peace with it.

"We need someone to get him on those premises before any of us sign anything," Harry said firmly, looking at Ron, "and we'll need your help."

The man's eyes nearly bulged at the suggestion. "That's—that's crazy, Harry. Do you know how many rules I've broken already, when I helped you find Malfoy? The sheer fact that I was promoted—"

"You were promoted!" Harry said happily, "That's great! You'll have more seniority and power, I don't see why you couldn't bring Draco along for a quick check."

The next thing Malfoy said surprised everyone. "Look, don't do it for me. Do it for Connor and the others, alright?"

Hermione rested her hand on her husband's shoulder, making it clear that she agreed with the other two. _And three trump one, _Ron thought somewhat miserably.

Part of his trepidation was the potential shitstorm he could receive at work—he didn't want to lose his job, and yes, he admitted that it was selfish—but the other part of him feared that Malfoy's manor _would _have a safehouse, and put their attempts with the center in a much worse situation.

"I have a lunch break at noon—I'm sure I can stretch it out for an hour, I don't usually take one. I'll say Hermione needed me to help her with something, I don't know. But that's all we have—an hour." The Auror said.

"Are there any security measures or wards protecting the manor right now? Since it's technically evidence?" Harry asked.

"Yes," the other responded, "but I have clearance to get in, and bringing in another person that _isn't _authorized shouldn't be a problem—people brought in witnesses all the time to look it over and help them put the case together."

"When?" asked the blonde, "I'd rather not take any longer than we need to."

"Tomorrow should work," came the response, "I'll have to meet you at the centre—apparition to the manor isn't possible yet. If I can't go, I'll let you know."

Draco nodded curtly. For now, it seemed, the matter was sorted.

The discussion turned to telling Ron about the antics of the day, but the blonde found himself quiet for the rest of the meal. It wasn't the idea that he would have to tolerate the Auror's presence alone that nagged at him—he was certain he could keep his drawling insults to a minimum.

It was the chance that the manor wouldn't be a viable alternative for the centre after all—the idea of letting those children down, especially Connor…

It scared him.

**::23::**

When they arrived back to their flat after a long conversation between the three Gryffindors—Draco had grown far too reserved to even bother throwing in a sardonic remark or two—Potter knew something was wrong. The blonde cursed him for being _such _a people-pleaser.

The raven-haired man didn't say much at first, allowing Draco to disappear and take a hot shower, after which he'd dressed in the most comfortable sleepwear he could find (he stole Harry's sweatshirt with the Chudley Cannon logo on it. He liked the smell of him).

The Gryffindor arrived shortly after he'd curled up on the bed. He'd brought some tea to help them sleep, but Harry realized the blonde man probably didn't need it—he looked so worn out.

Regardless, he took one tea cup and sipped at it idly, watching as olive skin revealed more of itself. Draco was slightly disappointed when Harry began covering it up with pajama bottoms and an oversized shirt.

The two supple pink lips parted slightly as he brought his teacup to them. The duvet rustled as he moved to sit next to Draco. Their shoulders brushed and the blonde began tracing at the olive canvas next to him.

"We'll probably have to stay here if I move the kids to the manor," he said, as if the fact weren't obvious enough.

"I don't mind," Harry answered, "It's not so bad here."

Draco thought of Connor again, for some reason—particularly of the boy's attachment to him. "Do you think I'm a bad influence on Connor?"

It was a strange question, and Harry looked at him with slight bewilderment, "Of course not. I don't think I've ever seen him take to someone so well. Just because he tends to bend the rules a bit doesn't mean it's because of you."

"I meant," the blonde sighed, "You know, professors and whatnot—they're not supposed to be friends, they're supposed to be…looking out for them by making sure they learn the best strategies for adulthood."

"You do look out for him," answered the other man gently, "Just because you're not like McGonagall or Snape about it doesn't mean it doesn't make you a good teacher."

"Mmm, perhaps." Draco responded, not entirely convinced.

Harry simply brushed his lips against his cheek, and then put his hand on the opposite, pushing his face gently so that his lips would meet the pale ones there.

After more than a few minutes of some very nice snogging, Draco whispered, with one eyebrow raised, "What was that for?"

"Calling me your boyfriend," Harry answered simply, his reddened lips curling up at the corners.

Draco rolled his eyes, calling him a romantic sop—"Such a Hufflepuff!" he teased—but the edge was softened by the small smile on his face.

…

_These last few days have been incredibly hectic for me, so I apologize for not updating every day like I wanted to. You will, however, always get an update every other day, if I can't manage it every day at times._

_Thanks for all of your reviews! They really help my motivation to work as hard as I can on this story. :)_

_-B._


	9. Chapter 9

**::24::**

No matter how many times each man had heard _"Be nice!" _from their significant others throughout the day (Hermione got most of her reminders in during the morning, Harry was free to squawk at Draco as much as he liked, and even said he'd forbid him to take his wand if he needed to—the blonde thought he'd gotten the bitter end of the deal on that one) it didn't seem to do much good. Ronald Weasley and Draco Malfoy were two people that would never get along.

Of course, no one expected Harry Potter to ever get along with him either, but regardless, it wouldn't be happening a second time.

The ginger-haired man thought that their outing would be awkward, filled of random silences.

"You're not late," drawled a familiar voice, "what a surprise. Manage to get a watch with that new pay raise of yours?"

He realized he had forgotten a very key point: this was Malfoy he was thinking about. Hermione's voice rang through his head—"Be nice, Ron!"—before he dismissed it.

_No way, _Ron thought darkly, as his rival strolled toward him, hands in his pockets, looking about as thrilled as a cat facing a bath. The auror reckoned he seemed about the same.

"Let's go," the Weasel muttered, one hand wrapping around Draco's upper arm, the familiar twister of disapparation pulling him far from coherent thought.

As disorientating as apparation could be, it wasn't as disorientating as seeing the manor again, a skeleton from his past. He made a move to go toward the looming building in front of him, and through those familiar ebony doors, before his unwanted tagalong stopped him.

"It wouldn't be in there, Malfoy. Come on, round to the garden." Ordered the ginger-haired man, taking out his wand.

"Shut up, Weasel," answered Draco distractedly, pursuing his body's original idea of walking up the stonewall path to his manor. He'd gotten as close as the steps leading to the familiar steel knobs shaped as snakes before the other man blocked him again, his body blocking view of the building.

"What is your problem? We don't have all day, Malfoy, and whilst I'm certain you'd _love _to relive the memories of your glory days, the plan was to look _around _the property, not in it. This is breaching protocol alread—"

Perhaps it was the tone Ron had taken. Perhaps it was just plain stubbornness. Perhaps it was just one of those occasions where he hadn't known what he was doing until after he'd made his mistake, but regardless, it took all of three seconds for Malfoy to trigger one ward he knew no Auror would know about. He watched it stir under the steps of the manor, rising to the wandless magic he was using.

The Devil's Snare.

All it really took was one low whistle, and the plant stirred, acting like his beloved Crup rather than the brainless thing that it was. It was quite interesting, really, how it all worked—Lucius, consulting a specialist, quite ironically, had managed to stifle its ability to kill after the incident with his pet, and instead it became a trap that could keep its victims there indefinitely. It was controlled by a sort of long-acting imperius curse tied to the manor itself, and Aurors, naturally, being some of the least likely to use Unforgiveables, wouldn't have caused the creature to stir in the slightest.

The only way that the Snare could have been unleashed is if the manor had been destroyed, and clearly the Ministry hadn't done that.

Draco probably would have adored watching the Weasel flail madly, but he leaned in to grab the prisoner's wand—the Snare wasn't smart enough to separate wand from foe, of course—and said, with a smirk, "Like you said, Weasel—we don't have all day. I'll be back sometime soon."

"I'm telling Harry!" shouted the Auror, but the blonde ignored him.

_Oh Merlin, _Ron thought with a rush of panic, _this was his plan all along, wasn't it? _

"It won't kill you," drawled Malfoy, just before he entered the manor, "I think, anyway." He added quietly, realizing that there were a number of different things that could have changed since he'd been away.

The sunroom, directly to his left, was lacking the light it usually had. He looked at it for a moment, and then walked through the corridor, his body knowing just where to lead him. The wallpaper was peeling; a large crack showed in the wall directly behind the desk.

Lucius Malfoy's study. The bookcases, lining the rest of the room to the right, weren't gleaming anymore, their polish had worn away, and a great many books were missing from their shelves, many of which littered the floor.

The portrait above the fireplace was missing, he noted—there was a faint outline on the wallpaper.

He ignored the rush of memories that assaulted him as he faced that desk, moving quickly to go around it and momentarily disappeared behind the large armchair that could only fit the desk it was designed for. His hand ran across the material at the back of it as he crouched to the floor, searching for the slight wedge of wood and hide.

If the Ministry and its Aurors were as inept as he thought them to be, then…

"Got you," Draco whispered, ignoring the squeak of protest from the chair as a chain fell to the floor.

His finger was bleeding—a splinter had stabbed him as he tore his arm away, grabbing the necklace off the dusty floor, the cool metal soothing the warmth of his wound.

"I am going to fucking kill you, Malfoy," snarled Weasley when the blonde man returned, looking as nonchalant as he could, "I really am."

The man waved dismissively at him, and Ron thought he was actually _ignoring _him, which caused him to spout off many more insults, but in the middle of telling him about how he'd _personally _make sure he got a cell for this, the plant dropped him sharply and drew away.

"Told you it wouldn't kill you," Draco said, tossing the man's wand back, and ignoring the hateful stare he gave him, his silver gaze fixed on the object hanging off a silver chain, "I'm off to the garden now."

The Weasel made a move with his wand, uttering the binding spell moments too quick for the blonde's disapparation.

"Fucking git," he muttered under his breath, jogging toward the back of the mansion, where he hoped Malfoy was. Ron found himself actually relieved when he saw the familiar flash of silver hair. A high-pitched cackle rang through the air, as he began walking toward the other wizard, and at first he thought it was _Malfoy _who'd made the noise. "Is this some sort of game to you?" he snapped angrily, grabbing the man's shoulder and spinning him around sharply.

Malfoy shoved him back, stepping back sharply to dodge Ron's attempt to get him off his feet. "That was the Erkling." He snapped, turning around and jogging past the entrance of the garden and toward the forest nearby, "and we have to follow it, so _come on,_"

The Auror looked at his retreating form as though he'd grown a second head. "You actually think I'd go _anywhere _with you after what you just pulled?" he called, "Are you mad?"

He watched as the man paused at the sound of another cackle, and barreled forward faster.

"You're right, you'd just hold me up. Tell Potter I won't be making dinner, then," came the shout in response—Malfoy had just disappeared into the thick of the woods.

"_Fuck." _Ron whispered, not knowing what had just happened but knowing that he wasn't going to like all the questions he was going to have to deal with. Forget the fact that the Malfoys actually had a tamed killer plant under their steps, much less that there seemed to be far more things about the mansion that the Ministry had yet to know—he'd just _lost _his best mate's _boyfriend._

Harry looked at his watch after clearing away all of the lunch things. Ginny was setting up a new movie, and Hermione wasn't there that day. It was ridiculously short-staffed that day, and without Draco, it was much worse. He told himself that it really was just the fact that the man was crucial to the centre.

He wasn't worried. No, not at all.

At half-past one, the wizard was pacing at the entrance, jolted out of his worst-case-scenario thinking at the sound of a familiar _crack. _Relief hit his veins as he pushed the door open, looking up to greet not a snarky blonde, but a very nervous-looking Ron.

"What happened?" Harry demanded.

The Auror started babbling about Malfoy going off into the forest after an _Erkling _of all things.

Harry had the panicky realization, as his gaze tore away from the upset Auror and to the cabinet beside him, that the blonde hadn't taken his wand with him.

A second wave of panic mixed in with a feeling of painful regret—_he'd asked Malfoy not to take it._

"Why would he do that?" he asked quietly, the horror clearly on his face.

Ron looked absolutely miserable. "I don't know, mate, he just said we needed to follow—"

"You didn't go with him?" snapped the other man, "What the fuck were you thinking?" He pushed past him, ignoring the protest Ron tried to put up as the bespectacled man, with a very familiar look of determination, outside the centre.

"How will you even find him, Harry?" asked Ron helplessly, knowing the man hadn't heard a word he said—he'd disapparated the moment his feet met the pavement.

**::25::**

Harry had misjudged and found himself in Draco's bedroom at the manor. A sense of frustration and panic filled him as he looked out the window, at the entrance of the forest. He realized he had no idea where the blonde had entered. He chased the thought away and focused on getting outside again.

The wizard looked up, at the bedroom window he'd just been looking out of. In front of him were some dying hedges and probably a whole acre of various plants. To his right, he saw the woods, and sighed, knowing Malfoy could be anywhere. He started running.

Nearly tripping over the fallen log, Harry had the foresight to leap over it, landing quite forcefully into the dead leaves beside it. The next few minutes seemed to be a blur of dark greenery as he began calling for the blonde.

After what seemed to be a day of shouting, his voice had grown hoarse and the wizard decided to keep going, just being sure to pay attention to all the sounds around him. This was perhaps his worst idea to date, Harry admitted as another branch hit him in the head, but he wasn't going to sit idly by.

After the branch had hit him, forcing his head downward as he paused to clean his glasses off, he caught sight of a mossy indentation in the forest floor below him. Freezing slightly, as if moving would make it disappear, he looked for another print, spying a broken branch ahead of him. It was a fresh break.

His heart all but soared, lifting him through the initial helplessness of his thoughts, and he continued on, slowly, looking for more clues.

Malfoy, on the other hand, found himself in quite a rut.

A literal one, that was. Following cackles blindly tended to make one more prone to such things, the wizard supposed, and he ignored the way his arms strained as he pushed himself to his feet. The laugh resounded slightly to his left, and the blonde continued forward.

The trip didn't seem to be as precarious now that he was older—the trees, while still quite tall, at least didn't appear to be the towers he remembered them to be. Some birds called above him, but he paid them no mind, still hunting the gnome-like creature that had led him here in the first place.

There was the sound of a rabbit racing past, and then the Erkling cried out again, leading him further down the path, where he stopped short, because there was a gnawing pain in his side. He'd found himself trudging slower for a while, but didn't want to stop completely because he figured, child or not, the creature leading him to the place he sought would still be hungry.

"Draco!"

The blonde jumped, surprised to hear any sound vaguely human this far out, and stopped. He looked around.

Harry wasn't expecting the blonde man to startle _him, _but he had—he wrapped one hand firmly over the wizards mouth and whispered, "Be quiet, Potter, you'll scare it away."

He seemed to ignore this because the moment his mouth was uncovered, he asked, "What do you think you're doing?"

Draco rolled his eyes, realizing that he probably shouldn't had hoped for such discretion. "Be quiet and I'll explain." His hand, having removed itself from silencing Potter, had fallen down to wrap around the olive-skinned man's wrist.

The Erkling laughed again, and he jolted forward, dragging Potter with him.

"You're following an Erkling?" he hissed, at least having the grace to keep his voice low, "Have you gone mad? Where is that going to get you, aside from dead?"

It wasn't entirely uncommon for one to kill an adult. They favored children, but weary travelers could be on the menu as well, especially ones that could tire as quickly as Draco could.

"I've done it before," the blonde murmured distractedly, "I snuck out of the manor and I followed it."

"Why?"

"Let's just say my father has more than one hiding place for his things, okay?" snapped the blonde, "I found the Crup he was saving as a gift for me later there. Whenever there wasn't something he wanted found, even by a nosy child, he'd hide it there—he told me about when I got older." He didn't mention that he hadn't been told directly. He'd been eavesdropping over a meeting when he was supposed to be in bed.

Harry frowned. "You can't apparate?" he whispered, "You've been there."

Draco shook his head. "Not here. Father was smart enough to ward it. He changed the entrance. The Erkling's the only thing that'll show us." He paused, looking at the wizard, conveying irritation, and said, "Just be quiet, Potter, okay? Until we get there."

After some time, Draco stopped suddenly, pointing at a large tree. It was gnarled and wild, looking like a cousin of the Whomping Willow. He grasped the chain around his neck, pressing the flat part of the circular object against the carved indentation in the bark.

This granted them access evidently, as the passage beneath it, much like the one hidden at Hogwarts, was safe to enter.

Harry took the pale man's hand when it was offered, and with the feeling of being at Hogwarts again, accompanied him into the passageway.

**::26::**

"You did _what?" _howled Ginny, her face as red as her hair, "and you let him go _after _the git?"

Ronald Weasley was not having a good day. He'd had yet to even tell his _wife _that Harry had gone after Malfoy, whom had run off, and he already felt like things couldn't get worse.

"Did he take his wand, at least?" his sister demanded.

He shrugged miserably, not seeing how that would calm her down any. He watched as she walked down to the cupboard where everyone stored their wands at the beginning of the day, and though she shortly shared the information with all the anger she could muster, the expression on her face said enough.

"Who doesn't remember to take their _wands _after deciding to chase their boyfriend around a forest with no other human inhabitants?" muttered Draco, unknowingly sharing the same thought as Ginny Weasley.

"I was a little distracted by _panic _at the time," Harry snapped, "You know, you could have been hurt or worse." The water rippled beneath him as he rowed.

The blonde raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't help your argument at all."

Since entering the passageway he'd found that the entire layout had changed, and the two men found themselves facing a long expanse of water. The other side was only accessible by boat, as evidenced by the rowboat at the short dock.

Harry thought he saw something dark stir in the watery depths beneath them, and he grimaced, looking up at the man parallel to him. "We should have gone back when we could," he said, "I _told _you—"

"And I told you that we wouldn't have found this place again," Draco answered calmly. He was just as anxious as his partner, but making that obvious would have just sent him into a fit, so he pretended everything perfectly alright. "Don't you worry, Potter," he drawled, "If you come across another spider, I'll kill it for you."

"I _told _you, I was just startled by the web," he grumbled.

The pale man patted Potter's exerted one. "Sure you were, darling," he murmured in a honey-sweet intone, "Sure you were."

…

_As a heads-up: I'm not sure how much updating will be happening between now and the sixteenth—I'm heading out to visit my family and the concept of spending time alone and-or having privacy is something they've never managed to grasp. With that said, I will try my hardest to update every other day like I have been doing (sorry that it can't be sooner!)._

_Thanks for reading!_

_-B._


	10. Chapter 10: Part 1

**::27::**

As the daylight ebbed away and night took its toll, Ronald Weasley found himself wishing for the millionth time that he _had _gone with Malfoy—it had to have been better than waiting for Hermione to talk to him again. She was livid—perhaps angrier at him than she'd ever been. Arguments between them had never ceased, not even after marriage, but the severity and length of their fights rarely lasted longer than a day or two.

Hermione had also joined forces with Ginny, and the two women made certain to make it clear that he was, under no circumstances, going to mention their current predicament to the Ministry. They had no room to budge as far as their current haggle over the centre was concerned, and such a grave mistake would no doubt reflect badly on them.

"So what do we do in the meantime?" Ron asked, watching his wife march around their house in anger.

Asking this was a mistake, because she paused, her eyes narrowing, and snapped, "What do you think, Ron? Going after them, of course. We can't simply sit here!"

"What about the centre? Ginny and Nev can't possibly look after the place themselves."

Hermione visibly bristled, knowing he was right but not wanting to admit it. They were in a bind, and the woman admitted that it would be just as dangerous to leave the centre even more shortstaffed when all the Ministry needed was another reason not to agree to help them. she felt torn, and was unsure on what to do about her friend—she knew Harry was perfectly capable of taking care of himself with a wand, and so was Malfoy for that matter, but without one?

She never thought she'd be as grateful for the prissy blonde as she was in that moment—at least Harry wasn't alone.

A thought stopped her in her tracks, and she dropped the book she was holding. There _was _one person who knew Malfoy better than anyone else, _and _the Manor. She didn't doubt that he knew more about where the blonde could have run off too as well.

She just wasn't sure if the foul-tempered man they'd grown to know as Severus Snape would be willing to help them—the bitterness between their former professor and Harry had never died down, even after the war. Despite Dumbledore's role in his own death, despite saving Snape and his double-agent cause and the fact that it probable won them the war, she doubted Harry would ever let go of the fact that he killed his Headmaster.

"We need to see Snape," said Hermione, ignoring the look of horror on her husband's face, "Don't look at me like that—he's the only one out of Azkaban that would know where Malfoy could have gone."

The man shook his head, as if thinking she'd gone mad. "He's _dead, _Herm."

"You know what I mean." Came the exasperated answer.

Knowing that whatever else he said would fall on deaf ears, Ron stopped himself from arguing and sighed. "The portrait is at Hogwarts. It's supposed to be hard to get into, and we can't just apparate there."

"We can while it's being rebuilt," said his wife, in that insufferably know-it-all tone, "It's easier for the laborers. Really, am I the only one who reads around here?"

Ron rolled his eyes.

**::28::**

Harry had only a few feet to go when Malfoy's hand caught his own, stopping him from rowing any more. He looked up at the blonde, who had raised one pale finger to his lips. When the dark-haired wizard ignored the cue and opened his mouth, the other silenced him with his hand.

A familiar cackle filled the air, and the gnome-like creature they'd been following greeted them by standing at the stone door before them. It made a strange gesture, almost a zig-zag, in the air, in which a loud rumbling followed. The door was splitting, revealing what looked to be a dead end. It disappeared in the room it had opened.

Harry stepped up, the boat rocking as he did so. He held out his hand for his blonde counterpart, who had frowned at him and said, "I am not a _girl, _Potter, I don't _need _your hand."

The blonde brushed past him, seeing that the room was, in fact, not a dead end—in the center of it was a circular opening. At first glance it seemed to be a well, but Draco knew better. He stepped closer, peering above it, seeing nothing but pitch darkness.

"Well, this is nice," said Harry sarcastically beside him, "We've gone all this way for a sip of wellwater. If you've got a sickle, we could even make a wish!"

As if reacting to the insult, the water Draco was watching rippled, causing him to draw back sharply, just in time to dodge the long fangs that nearly ripped into his cheek. Undeterred, the owner of those sharp teeth lurched forward, and, splayed in the white light of the room, the two men were surprised to see that its form was transparent, as if…

"Is that thing made of _water?" _asked Harry, creeping backwards with him.

The snake hissed, pursing them, but stopped short when they reached the edge of the doorway. It snapped at them once more before disappearing back into the well as if it were tied to it.

"My father couldn't get a better security system than just water?" murmured the blonde in slight disappointment, "Is he even hiding anything here?"

A loud hiss interrupted them, and the two wizards whirled around, facing a cobra easily ten feet tall. It was glossy, the water swishing as it moved forward. Harry grabbed Malfoy's wrist, pulling him forward as he ran to the opposite corner. It struck, leaving a large hole where they had been standing, and seemed undeterred by the two men's dodge.

The blonde man, who was leaning against him, watched as it crept closer. The moment was tense, and it towered above them, as if poising for a strike, but then froze. The light shone off its scales and Harry found himself wondering if they'd caused it to do that.

To their horror, the reptile began splitting, starting at its head and down to its tail—two snakes, five feet long, smiled at them predatorily.

"Harry," Draco said quietly, "on the count of three, we're going to start running."

"Run? Got any better ideas?" answered the other man in a whisper, tightening his grip on the pale wrist beside him.

"Afraid not, Potter."

As if that were all he needed to hear, the scarred man stepped away, _toward _the creatures that wanted to kill them and who had been eyeing them quietly. Malfoy hissed, _"What are you doing?"_

All he got in response was a hiss, and the blonde at first thought the snakes were about to strike, but then he saw that _Harry _was the one making those sounds, and perhaps even more bewildering was the fact that the snakes appeared to be _listening. _

_Of course, _he thought, _Potter's a Parselmouth. _He'd forgotten entirely about that ability, but whatever the man was saying was keeping the creatures from killing them and devouring slowly—it wasn't, however, enough to keep them from regarding them with a sort of hunger.

"_My friend and I are sorry," _said Harry, _"We'll leave right away." _

The snake on the right cricked its head at him. _"A parselmouth? How interesting. No one else has talked me to since Lucius. Regardless, we can't have you go anywhere."_

Its counterpart, cricking his head in the same way, responded to his plea quite plainly. _"We've also come with the directive that we let _no one _go unless they've the key."_

"_Key?" _asked Harry, hope thrumming wildly with the anxiety in his chest. _"We have a key. My friend has it."_

The two snakes drew back as if surprised, and turned in unison to look at Draco, who was frozen in the corner. On his neck was still the strange circular object he'd used on the tree.

"_He has it!" _hissed the snake, _"It's Lucius's, how did you get it? Are you thieves?"_

"_That's Draco Malfoy, his son." _Answered Harry.

The snakes regarded him in what seemed to be suspicion, though emotion was hard to detect within the watery depths.

A very long thirty seconds later, the snakes began drawing back slowly, circling around them at wider and wider intervals as they did so. Harry took three slow steps backward, his hand settling around the blonde's wrist again as he did so.

The sound of water sloshing filled the room as the snakes disappeared.

"What did you—"

The savior said, "They didn't listen to me." He looked over at the object dangling off of Malfoy's neck, "They listened to _that." _

The blonde took it in one hand and looked at it, as if it would give him an explanation for the vague answer. His face twisted in bewilderment. "This?"

The well in the centre of the room became the source of a familiar rumbling noise, and a loud thud followed, a long and translucent rope coiling at their feet, leading into the circular entryway.

Draco looked at him, as if having second thoughts.

"I'll go first," Harry said, surprising himself, and he lifted the rope, tugging at it to test its sturdiness. It _felt _like rope, only cooler to the touch.

A flash ran through Draco's silver eyes as he watched Potter begin to climb over the barrier. He stepped closer, and as the man's body had nearly completely disappeared, his head the only part visible, he realized he'd been holding his breath.

"Be careful, Potter." He said finally, watching as the messy hair was swallowed up by the dark, the man's muffled response indecipherable. It seemed to take forever but finally the rope slacked somewhat and he heard the Gryffindor shout for him to come down.

Relief flooded through him at that, though the blonde wouldn't admit it, but after he'd lowered himself down, the familiar touch of Harry's hands on his shoulders greeting him, the man said, "I can't see a bloody thing, Potter. Give me your hand."

Wordlessly, the savior complied, privately amused—Draco apparently wasn't fond of the dark.

The hand around his tightened, and Harry found himself somewhat glad for the dark necessitating such a gesture. Like Draco's worrying, though, the green-eyed man wouldn't breathe a word of it.

_This is much shorter than you're used to, I know (hence the parts) but I've just arrived and am dead tired from the trip, so this chapter will be in two parts. Sorry about that, and I hope you can be patient for a little bit longer as I get acclimated to everything again._

_In other news: After this is completed I will be compiling a series of one-shots surrounding this universe, and, in particular, interactions with Connor—a sort of spin-off and more family-oriented. Keep an eye out!_

_As always, thanks for reading, I really appreciate it!_

_-B._


	11. Chapter 10: Part 2

**::29::**

After the war, Hogwarts had become a place that no one recognized—it had been half-destroyed when the Death Eaters tried to launch a surprise attack and as a result had been abandoned for the duration of it. It was for this reason that anyone who _had _attended Hogwarts School of Wizardry would find it to not match their memories.

Ron suspected this was on part of the Ministry, as they were very fond of the idea of 'starting anew' and of 'being better than ever before'—that apparently meant redesigning some aspects of the school. The tall man thought it a disgrace—had Dumbledore still been alive, he wouldn't have stood for it. He felt himself tense at the thought—remembering anyone's death was still hard.

The Astronomy tower, where Norbert the dragon had made his escape—it was nowhere to be found. The Quidditch field and its stands, once a place of vibrancy, was now simple a piece of land, with a large, ugly crack through the foundation. Though rich and oscillating in his memories, only a shadow remained before him.

Looking at the school now in the distance, brimming with every protection charm known to man, teeming with specks that resembled ants, it wasn't hard to remember why he'd vowed to never go back. Hermione took his hand, as if already knowing of his hesitancy, but said nothing.

"Are you sure they'll let us through, 'Mione?" Ron asked finally, letting out a sigh.

The bushy-haired woman nodded. "I said it was for Harry. Luna knows someone on this project, so she put the word in." Pausing and squeezing his hand, she looked up at him briefly.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to, Ron."

Her husband kept his stare trained very carefully on the sky's horizon. "I'm fine."

The two Gryffindors paused at the large entryway, which had been mostly untouched by the Ministry and their hires. A wave of what Ron could only describe as nostalgia hit him, the force enough to make him waver slightly. He remembered, in short snippets, his last moments at that door.

Who he had last seen at that door.

McGonagall, struck by a curse, had been one of the last to reach the door and consequently one of the first to die. He wasn't sure what her last words had been, but the man knew he was one of the last people, if not the final person, she had seen before the light disappeared from her usual tired and stern gaze. In that moment, before she was gone, he saw someone terrified and breathtakingly _human, _something he'd rarely witnessed in his professor, and he would never forget it.

Death Eaters had swarmed the building, opting for an ambush, and their numbers, though meager, had caused much ruin. The rumors and notions of Dumbledore's Army was what had originally sparked a hasty offensive move—albeit sloppy and not as successful as some of their later raids, it was still the one many would remember as the most panic-filled.

He remembered wondering why and how he'd gotten a position as an Auror—he'd haphazardly passed some OWLS that were being offered to some of the elder students at the end of the war, and almost immediately got a position. He remembered the bile that rose up in the back of his throat when he realized that the war had brought many empty spaces to be filled.

Harry had gone his separate way after it finally ended—being an Auror or Healer held little interest to him, and the papers that stalked him at every turn and turned all but rabid when they did spy that familiar messy head of hair helped very little in that regard. For a short time, it was as though he'd disappeared completely—he hid out in a flat that Neville rented out under his name for him, and despite how many Owls he received from his friends, remained mute.

Hermione worried sick about him, sending him various cakes and casseroles—she told Ron to keep his mother under the guise that they had been seeing him frequently, because Mrs. Weasley had never been quite the same after the disappearance of Percy and the death of her husband.

The relationship between Ginny and the man she once pictured marrying had abruptly ended, and though months later the two had finally talked it through, it took time for the dynamics between all of them to feel even remotely normal.

It was only until the idea and development of the Centre began that brought their friend back from wherever he had gone, from the hollowed husk he was, and both Hermione and Ron agreed that it was probably what had brought him back to life, back to them.

Now, though, any disappearance lasting longer than a day or two made the both of them very uneasy, as the idea that Harry simply up and left without a word had been a great concern to them both, one that was almost a reality.

The entrance hall was dusty, the floors worn and stripped bare of rugs and other decor. The large staircase loomed above them, staring at them like a stranger rather than possessing the welcoming air it used to.

"Hello, Ron," greeted a familiar airy voice, almost an echo. She smiled tranquilly before looking around, and sighing, "It is quite different without the Blibbering Humdingers around."

The woman turned to look at Hermione, and said, "What you seek is in the storeroom. I can take you there. Be careful of the Nargles, though. They seem to like the disarray that exists here."

**::30::**

The path that his father's trap ended up leading them to was quite narrow and clearly designed for one person. This discovery made him slightly anxious, as he wondered what surprises lay in store.

Lucius, after all, was a man who made sure that his secrets stayed secrets, if necessary. Potentially lethal and illegal ways of attaining that security never phased him. The potential for harming his son with the joint existence of danger, and at one point, a toddler, also didn't seem to bother him, because the blonde man remembered on many occasions nosing through things most mothers would have gasped scandalously at.

After what seemed to be many hours, the walk long enough to leave Draco feeling unsteady with exertion, the two wizards found themselves in front of what appeared to be a cellar, like what was at the Manor. Upon looking closer, Draco realized it _was _the Malfoy Manor's cellar. The sole difference between the rooms, in fact, was simply that the two men happened to be in it.

The savior beside him, however, did not pick up the similarity, because upon seeing the blonde's bewildered stare, he asked, "What is it?"

Rolling his eyes at Potter, as though thinking him very dense—which, truthfully, he thought to himself hundreds of times a day—Draco said, "You really are blind. You should get those eyes of yours fixed."

Harry rolled his eyes, mimicking the blonde.

"It's the _Manor." _Said Malfoy impatiently, gesturing to the area around them, "Don't you see?"

"But we're not in the Manor," murmured the green-eyed man, his face illustrating the confusion he felt. Before his snarkier counterpart could comment, Harry strode forth into the room, holding one hand out.

Thinking this incredibly foolish, partly because it simply _looked _stupid but also partly because Potter seemed to forget _whose _secret hideaway they happened to be in, the other wizard followed him, grabbing his shoulder.

It was at that exact moment, however, that Harry, having reached the exact center of the cellar, found himself thrown back by something that felt like a force field.

It was also at that moment that the empty corridor behind them simply vanished soundlessly, and neither man noticed.

He attended to Malfoy's fallen form first—"You're squashing me, Potter. Stop gaping and get up already."—before turning back to the space in front of him.

It _looked _normal—there were no sounds or lights that warned him of what he presumed to be a protective ward—but Draco stopped him from making another step toward it.

"Do you have a death wish? Have you _forgotten _who this belonged to? For Merlin's sake…" muttered the blonde irritably, looking around warily as if trying to find the significance of their surroundings.

Upon turning around, he saw that the exit was no longer there. Seeing that his counterpart was still busy gazing at the empty spot in front of him, deep in thought, Malfoy thought it pertinent to make the most recent development in their lives, as it was surely going to lead to the end of it, known.

"Great," he snapped shrilly, "Absolutely wonderful. You've killed us, Potter—you and your bloody curiosity! We're going to starve to death!"

It was during his hysterical tirade that something caught his eye. Perhaps ironically it happened to be the cellar door, which was directly in front of them, at the top of the steps. It wasn't that he hadn't seen it before—it was that he hadn't paid attention to _where _it was.

At the Malfoy Manor, the cellar door would have been where the two men happened to be standing, right where the corridor was—the room, right down to the spidery-looking crack in the brick wall beside them, was a reflection. Everything was reversed.

"_It's a mirror." _breathed Draco, flooded with equal parts awe and confusion—what did others see on the opposite side? Were they simply invisible, muted, and lost in time?-"We're in a bloody _mirror, _Potter!"


	12. Chapter 11

**::31::**

"Are you _sure _you can't think of anything?" asked Potter again, sounding like a broken record when he did so. "He _was _your father, wouldn't—"

"I can't think of anything, Scarhead, and if you want to help, just be quiet," snapped Draco, having lost his patience for the bespectacled wizard long ago. His silver eyes watched as he wandered around the room, hands wandering against each stone on the wall, as if it would magically make an exit appear. He did note, however, that the Gryffindor was careful not to stray too far to the middle.

A short silence followed the blonde's waspish reply, which came as surprise to him, but sure enough, moments after he had privately remarked on it, Potter came forth with another question: "I suppose we could try wandless magic, couldn't we?"

"What sort," drawled Malfoy, "hurry-up-and-save-us or bring-back-the-vanishing-corridor?"

"Do you really have to have a snarky comment to _everything _I say?" shot back Harry irritably, "Pardon me if I haven't given up on surviving this whole ordeal yet."

A wry laugh came from the taller man, who was sitting in the corner, knees up. "Even the-boy-who-lived has to die someday," he said, "You do know that, right?"

"It's not going to be today," snarled his counterpart, his irritation succumbing to rage. Draco watched as he walked toward the barrier again, predictably finding himself sprawled on the ground, one hand resting lightly on one of the blonde's feet in the process.

"Going to gun for a third time, Potter, or have you finally gotten the concept of impenetrable through that thick skull of yours?"

Harry turned around, scooting over to Malfoy's side. "There has to be some way out of here, Draco."

The blonde didn't answer, but simply looked directly above where they happened to be. "There is one difference between this place and the Manor," he said, seeing the other man mimic his movement. In the center of the ceiling, a few feet from where they sat, was something that strangely looked like half of a globe. What countries or cities happened to be portrayed on it was impossible to tell, and the other side appeared to had been either cut off or was swallowed up by the room above, because it was nowhere in sight.

"It looks like a disco ball," supplied Harry unhelpfully, and Draco chose not to bother asking what it was he was on about. "Perhaps we can break it—we just need to find—" The wizard began looking around the room, as if something would appear if he said it enough times.

"With _what, _Potter? In case you haven't noticed, there's not a whole lot here." He watched as the boy wonder began untying his left shoe, causing his leg to nudge into his own. The Slytherin made no effort to hide his disdain. "_What _are you doing?"

He rose to his feet, the shoe in his hand, and choosing to let his actions speak for him, threw it in the air, toward the half-globe. It haphazardly sailed to the far right and made the barrier screech as it brushed past, narrowly missing its owner as it barreled back toward them.

Harry felt himself being pushed aside roughly before a familiar voice muttered, "Move. You can't throw to save your life. How you ever managed to get a spot on the Quidditch team is beyond me." As if it had come to life, the shoe flew through the air, filling it with the sound of crackling.

The globe, apparently not pleased with having to put up with any assailment of any kind and also apparently in possession of a mouth akin to the Sorting Hat, _bit _into the sole of the shoe, shook it to and fro like a dog, and spat it right back out again.

Then it croaked, quite prissily, "Don't think those dragonhide boots of yours will get you anywhere, either."

Draco, momentarily taken aback, turned to look at Potter, who was staring at the shoe. It was badly singed and actually smoking. Deciding him to be preoccupied, the Slytherin turned back and snapped, "You could have mentioned you could talk a while ago!"

The indentation of an eyebrow rose at him. "You didn't ask—I am only allowed to have direct contact with the sole proprietor, one Draco Lucius Malfoy. Your father bequeathed me to you."

"When?" Draco, not surprised that his father had kept secrets, but surprised that he'd had the _time _to bequeath anything. He reminded himself that Lucius had known, perhaps for months, of his eventual death. He wondered if there were any more surprises he should know about—they were getting rather tiresome.

"I do not keep time, Mr. Malfoy," responded the globe again in that snotty tone; it spun around once as if to show its displeasure, "It is not my purpose."

"What _is _your purpose?" asked Harry, who had been trying to figure out if his shoe was able to be put back on (it wasn't) and so he decided to discard the right one as well. The whole situation struck him as incredibly ludicrous—something he supposed he should have been used to, as his whole life had tended to follow that vein—and something as simple as losing a shoe made him wonder how normal people lost their footwear.

He was fairly certain magical globes were not part of the list.

As though it hadn't heard him, the globe stayed silent. Draco repeated the question and then turned to him, saying, "He prefers you over me, Potter."

Harry muttered that it figured, being something obviously connected with the Dark Arts.

"My purpose is to create a vault so secure that no Muggle nor Wizard could possibly get through. It needed to be convenient, and thus was built in connection with the Manor, for easy access, as well as inconspicuous enough so that it could not be found."

"What was my father hiding here?"

"He was planning on hiding _you _here_, _Mr. Malfoy—he entrusted me to your care for as long as you would need prior to transport. Additionally, I am able to transport you to wherever it may be that you need to go. This feature can only be used once, however, as your father wanted for there to be no trace of you."

The savior behind Draco said, "Well, that can't be right—it's missing the endless shampoos and hair gels and general Slytherin décor."

"For your information, I don't have to use hair gel anymore," he answered, his tone akin to the one the globe used, "and _you _would be well advised to invest in some."

"You like my hair," Harry shot back, "You told me once, after you'd taken a pain potion."

Pretending to not hear the comment, the Slytherin turned his attention back to the globe. It regarded him silently, with a regal air that he had no doubt was his father's doing—he made sure to get the best of the best. He was willing to guess that what created the Sorting Hat probably had magic in common with the object above him. It just happened to be a little more sociable.

"What happens after I use it?" he asked.

"I will implode." came the calm answer, as though the idea wasn't threatening in the least.

Holding one pale hand out for Harry to grasp onto, Draco muttered, "We're leaving. Now."

"I cannot do that, Mr. Malfoy," interjected the magical globe in a silky tone, something eerily like what Lucius used to use when he was angry and in a public place, "your father made sure to make it very clear—you are the only one able to use this escape."

"Potter can't come with me?"

The globe all but sneered at him, as though knowing what Lucius would have thought about Harry James Potter being saved by his son and said, "You are correct, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco looked at the man beside him, who hadn't let go of his hand yet. "Surely there's another way out, then? An emergency exit, perhaps?"

"I'm afraid this _is _the emergency exit," pointed out the globe irritatingly, "and, you, Mr. Malfoy, are the only one I have been designated to serve."

**::32::**

Ron found that the trip to see one of his least favorite people in the world, dead or alive, was woefully short. The fact that so little of the Hogwarts he knew existed any more was simply another twist to the knife currently resting in his side. Most of the building and interior, on the side they were on at least, had been stripped away to the barest of gunmetal stone and foundation.

Luna apparently had been unbothered by his silence, because he realized he hadn't said another word to her when she gave him and Hermione her farewell. It didn't escape the two of them that the Ravenclaw had made sure to leave before they reached the point of their destination, which, she said, was just around the corner.

Hermione sighed, taking his hand and being sure to firmly guide him down the rest of the darkened corridor, the bare walls testament to the downfall of their school and also to the fact that, dead or alive, few people seemed to be able to tolerate Severus Snape for long.

"There, I think," said the bushy-haired woman, pointing at a tall, narrow rectangle a few feet in front of them. A white sheet was over it, shielding its contents from view. Most would say it was to protect the item from any dust or residue, but the two Gryffindors both knew it was likely the contents that _warranted _the cover.

Her husband, perturbed by the sense of anxiety and dread the man could still elicit in him, was too distracted to uncover the portrait. Hermione took a deep breath and leaned over to pull off the fabric, being sure to step back sharply as she did so.

A very familiar sneer greeted them. "Granger," dark eyes regarded her before sweeping over and looking at the man next to him, which only deepened his scowl more, "and Weasely too. What on Earth made you think I'd care to have you as company any longer than I needed to?"

"It's Malfoy." Blurted Hermione out, also apparently having some anxiety due to seeing her professor again. The man looked uninterested by this, and exuded the sort of air that always made her feel like she'd said something stupid. She persevered however, and continued, "He's gone missing."

Snape regarded them silently for a moment, as though trying to figure out what they weren't telling him. He drawled, finally, "This has something to do with Potter, doesn't it? It always does go back to him."

Neither one of them answered, which was enough to confirm Snape's suspicions.

"They've disappeared in the woods by the Manor," supplied Hermione finally, after a long silence and tense stare from the man in the portrait.

"They?" echoed Snape icily.

"Harry went after Malfoy."

Thinking the opposite of the actual scenario, Snape spat out, "Well, it's no surprise that Potter's managed to get a job as an Auror. Has he managed to wrangle out Head Auror yet from the Ministry, or is that what Draco is for?"

"He's not an Auror," snapped Ron heatedly, fed up with the barrage of undeserved comments about his friends, "and Malfoy went there willingly, Harry went after him to try and bring him back."

Snape seemed like he either thought the ginger-haired man was lying or simply had no idea what he was talking about. He didn't know, obviously, what had developed between the two former rivals, nor did he fully know the outcome of the war, as he had died in the process. Ron wondered if all he and Hermione would get from their visit were simply disparaging comments.

"Forget it, Hermione," he snapped finally, whirling around angrily, "Just because he's in a portrait doesn't mean he's changed."

The woman looked at the scowling man, then at the dreary environment surrounding the black frame. It seemed, oddly, like he agreed with Ron's sentiment. She had to relent, and regretted ever dragging Ron back to this place.

Turning to leave, watching him disappear around the corner, the icy tone that always seemed to be made of silk stopped her.

"Granger," Snape said, pausing for a moment, clearly not happy with having to give in to the fact that he would have to employ her help if he cared for Draco's safety at all, "I won't repeat myself, so listen closely." He made sure she nodded before continuing, "Look in the cellar. The Malfoy Manor has more rooms than you can see."

She was caught off-guard by the help he offered, and it made her feel strangely nervous—as though he knew something she didn't. Nodding at him, she opened her mouth to share gratitude but Snape stopped her.

"Don't give me your Gryffindor rot, but mark my words, Granger, if you've done this to get Draco in Azkaban I _will _haunt you and all of your bushy, ginger-haired children."

Hermione didn't doubt it for a second.

_Just to give you a heads-up: these next few chapters will be shorter but more fast-paced—I designed it that way, but I'm trying to keep everything going together smoothly without too much jarring of the storyline._

_Additionally: I hope to have this done by September 4__th__! Hopefully that's before most of you start school (if you happen to be in it)._

_Thank you for your patience over these last few weeks—I've been dealing with a lot of personal/family related things, so writing is hard to get to some days. Your reading can be the highlight of my days sometimes, so, I really do appreciate everyone here!_

_-B._


	13. Chapter 12

**::33::**

There was a very familiar, irritating expression on Potter's face that Draco recognized right away. It was the one he'd used every bloody time he went to live up to his savior namesake, never thinking of the possibility of a fatal disaster. Headstrong and stubborn—that was the Harry he knew.

Narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms, the blonde said, "Don't even think about it," a haughty expression settling upon his face when he saw the dark-haired wizard frown slightly—he hadn't expected Malfoy to read him so quickly.

But he _did _know Harry Potter quite well, and dared even to go as far as suggest that he knew him better than his Gryffindor friends—part of him, though he would never admit it, was proud to be the one that knew him best. He didn't know that the level of his arrogance and possessiveness about anything Harry Potter implied it anyway.

"So, what, you're fine with us starving to death here?" asked Harry, unaware of the other man's thoughts. "Do you even know how long we've been here already?"

Regarding him silently for a moment, as if uncertain on whether or not to be serious or not, Draco said dryly, "Don't be so dramatic and defeatist, Potter. I think the dehydration will get us first."

"You're just being stubborn," said the wizard.

"You're just trying to save the day again, and I won't let you," countered the silver-eyed man.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Are you really going to let your pride get in the way of surviving? If I remember correctly, you bolted quite quickly with Fang—"

"Are you a werewolf, Potter?" asked Draco, one eyebrow raised, "because otherwise, I see no immediate danger to run from."

"I'll be fine," came the murmur.

The Slytherin knew Harry was stubborn, he knew he was reckless when his savior complex came into play, and he knew that reason was his worst enemy in such a state. But he didn't know the man was so blind to the fact that his Gryffindor luck wouldn't follow him forever—wasn't the war enough to show him that?

Perhaps he knew and didn't care. The idea caused a short pang to rise in Draco's chest, as if he'd been stabbed. There was a spot of dirt on Harry's cheek; the blonde suppressed the urge to rub it away. _No need to go soft now, _he thought.

He intoned, very dryly with one eyebrow raised—the nonchalant veneer was important now. "And when the Weasel and Granger arrive to save you, like always, what will I tell them, hmm? They'd skin me alive, Potter, so it'd be senseless, really, to give into your ridiculous idea."

The dark hair, wild and messy, shook as Potter showed his disagreement. "They wouldn't. They know—" he clammed up immediately, shifting his gaze to the abandoned shoes on the floor. His feet were growing cold and achy, having been standing on the uneven stone surface for so long.

"They know what?" pressed his taller counterpart, irritating Harry with his persistence—Draco never could let things go, he was as stubborn as himself. He looked up, catching the smirk playing on his pale lips, and the irritation grew further—why did he have to act so bleeding nonchalant all the time?

"Nothing." He said finally, after a long silence, "Do you really think they'll be able to find us? You saw how hard it was to find this place."

The blonde took a step closer, making Harry move closer to the wall—the coolness sank into his skin despite the clothes he wore. There was a look in the gunmetal stare that he knew all too well.

Draco leaned in, his hands pressed flat against the stone wall before him, his cheek brushing past Potter's as he whispered against the curve of his ear, _"They know what, Harry?" _Knowing the Gryffindor wouldn't give up easily, he pushed forward, pressing his lips against the side of his neck.

A sharp intake of air rattled in Harry's lungs as he felt his resolve weaken.

"_They know what?" _repeated the blonde, almost mockingly now, though the tone was something too soft for cruelty.

Tilting his head up to the pale man before him, hands holding his face firmly, Harry silenced him with a kiss.

Draco allowed it for a few moments, lost in the sensations that always overcame him when it happened, and he was almost regretful about the loss of it as he pulled back.

"Why are you so afraid to tell me?" he asked, trying a different strategy. It worked, because the green eyes of the shorter man flashed with a sort of indignation upon hearing the question.

"I'm not afraid," answered Harry, frowning, "and don't think I don't know you're goading me on purpose, you arse."

"You're afraid, Potter, don't deny it."Draco all but sang, the words coming past his lips in a low rumble, something close to the way a cat would purr. "What _is _it that you told your fellow lions that you can't even tell _your _boyfriend, hmm?"

"You very well may be, but that doesn't mean I can say what I like and what I don't care to," muttered Harry.

Draco, feeling a wave of jealousy, sneered at the answer. "And I suppose Granger and the Weasel are just one notch above, like always? You really _can't _let go of the past, can you?"

The other man sighed, as though he was sick of the conversation already. "Can we not fight? I'd rather not wait for my death with you angry at me," he paused, glancing at him, and continued, in a much lighter tone, "Unless you care to expedite the process now."

"You are relentless, Potter," growled the blonde, detecting the implication in his words, "but you're not going to convince me to do anything." With an arrogant expression, he continued, "Besides, it's _my _place, isn't it? Thus I have the choice, not you."

The retort did not garner the reaction the blonde was aiming for. A startled expression struck the other man's face, as though Draco had said something very surprising. The taller man stepped back, twisting to look behind him, but found no answer to account for the strange expression on Harry's face.

"If you're the proprieter, Draco," said Harry, "Why couldn't you change the requirement that there be two people transported instead of one?"

It was the sort of thing Hermione would have thought of right away. Had it not been for her and all her rambling about the contract regarding the centre—he was very glad he had forced himself to try to listen to it, much unlike Draco, who had been busy trying not to glare at Ron—he wouldn't have thought of it.

"I doubt it's that simple," muttered the Slytherin, privately feeling somewhat foolish for not thinking of it beforehand. The globe, having gone silent and stoic after being ignored for Harry, made no indication that his words had even been heard. Rolling his eyes, remembering that he had to speak _to _it, he said, "If I'm the proprietor, then _can't _I change the rules?"

Abruptly coming to life, the globe turned once and said, quite abrasively, as though bitter about the answer, "Yes, Mr. Malfoy, you may."

"Brilliant, then. Let's deem him," he pointed at Harry behind him, "my approved accompanying party to our flat then, shall we?"

"One moment, please, Mr. Malfoy," answered the globe, apparently not pleased about losing its company.

A bold, shimmering gold burst forth, looking like a roll of parchment, albeit slightly transparent, and filled the room with light. It was, in fact, a very lengthy-looking contract, with Lucius's signature displayed throughout. In the next moment, a second line appeared beneath them, with the name 'Draco L. Malfoy' in small print next to them.

"You don't have a pen," said Harry.

Draco shot him a look that suggested he was questioning the validity of his magical background, and, with great flourish (and a sharp intake of breath that he held in suspense), managed to produce his own signature on the lines before him with a simple snap of his fingers. Relief flooded through him—he hadn't been sure if he could have managed it the first time, he'd never needed to use it.

Magical signatures, in general, were rare enough, for the general Wizarding population, at least—but signatures created with wandless magic was considered an outdated practice. It was also one thing Lucius had made sure Draco knew before he even went to Ollivander's.

He remembered, still, how very proud his father had been when he managed to master it. Granted, the hours of practice helped—practice he grew to loathe—and no matter how many times he asked his father to simply allow him one afternoon off, Lucius always said no.

In retrospect, his other wandless magic was less impressive, and much more common. Harry didn't need to know that, of course.

The gold light, as though simply tugged away, faded quickly.

"Stop gaping, Potter," drawled Draco, pretending as though he didn't enjoy the surprise reflected on his face, "and let's go."

"I'm not gaping," answered the messy-haired man defensively, though he took the hand that was extended out to him easily.

"You may direct me to your destination, Mr. Malfoy." asked the globe shortly, interrupting them.

Draco didn't look at Harry, but he felt the subtle pressure of him squeezing his hand, as though wanting to be sure he was there, before giving out his answer.

"Home."

**::34::**

This development in Draco and Harry's adventure, while very fortunate for them, was less so for the pair of Gryffindors currently standing in the Malfoy Manor.

It had been nearly a day—come afternoon, it would be a day—that the two men disappeared. Neither one of them had slept much, and Hermione knew that their disappearance couldn't be kept private for much longer.

It was exactly what she was afraid of—that she and Ron wouldn't be able to find them in time.

Hermione had been standing much farther in, and though she knew her eyes showed nothing out of the ordinary (well, for the Malfoy Manor), she knew something had to be there—Snape wouldn't have lied to her.

"I don't see a globe," Ron said plainly, "Maybe they moved it." It was just after he spoke those words aloud that he froze, suddenly having a realization.

The woman who walked up to him apparently hadn't heard him, because she looked distracted and was muttering about which books might have the answers she was looking for—she was already mentally compiling a list.

"Hermione," he said, noticing that his wife had disappeared into her thoughts again, and he patiently waited for her to look up so that he could repeat his words, "I don't think it's here."

Thinking he was claiming that simply because he hated whom the advice came from, she protested, "But Snape said—"

"Snape doesn't know the Ministry got hold of the Malfoy Manor, does he? He also doesn't know that ninety-percent of what it held is now in a storage vault somewhere. You said so yourself, 'Mione—portraits only remember their past."

She paused, considering his words. As she did so, she looked around the empty room slowly, realizing that the rusted bits of metal still clinging to the cold floor below her were for _shackles—_and the Ministry had even taken those.

As they stood outside (Ron wearily eyed the plant beneath the house—he was certain it had growled at him) and looked at the Manor a final time, Hermione said, "I'm surprised they left this place still standing, or that anything exists in it at all."

"I think they ran out of room." The auror said thoughtfully, remembering the rumors around the office. His face brightened immediately when he remembered that Timmins was actually no longer able to tell him what he could and couldn't do.

This, wonderfully, also included whether or not he could look at evidence—and having the lead on Harry's case, the connection to Draco Malfoy's old things were enough authorization.

This all meant one thing.

He needed to get back to work as quickly as possible—but also needed to convince his wife that she needed to sit still and stay at the centre while he investigated the newest discovery on his own—having her come in with him would raise more eyebrows than they needed.

Ron doubted she would take it well.


	14. Chapter 13

**::35::**

The trip itself from the place they'd gotten stuck in was much like a using a portkey. It took no time at all to leave, which Harry appreciated. Seeing their flat—and the way Draco had called it home—made him feel much more peaceful than he had in a long time.

Of course, it could have been the sheer exhaustion—he wasn't sure.

"I've got to go to the centre," was Draco's immediate response when he saw the door to the flat in front of him—and most importantly, that Harry was still beside him.

Apparently to the blonde, their safe arrival at home was enough for him to declare the emergency over—not the fact that he was exhausted, hadn't eaten, and was in fact doing the opposite of what his health needed him to do. Harry could find this endearing at times, and perhaps with all that had happened, foolish endearment was all he could muster up.

"Not until you've had something to drink and eat," responded the man, "Not that we have anything but bread, but you're still eating something."

"It'll take a minute," argued Malfoy.

Harry ignored this and dragged him inside. "You take much longer than a minute with your goodbyes, so pardon me if I don't feel inclined to trust you on that." Secretly, though, the warmth in his chest flared up again—he would have never suspected it at Hogwarts, but Harry had to admit that Draco Malfoy was probably the person that had helped the centre's residents the most, in the shortest amount of time.

Not wanting to argue further and waste more time, the Slytherin pulled one slice of bread out of the bag hastily, and took a bottle of water in his other hand. He all but shoved it in his mouth, washing it down as quickly as he could with the water.

"Draco," Harry said, looking somewhat amused by the reaction, "What about a shower? Some sleep? You've been up all night, you know what they said about—"

The blonde rolled his eyes. "_Yes, Mum. _I'll be right back, Potter. Besides, _you _have to find those Gryffindorks of yours—you reckon they've gotten themselves lost, too?"

"Shit," he swore at the reminder, "I really should find them. Do you think they've told anyone yet?"

The taller man shrugged, and said, just as he was closing it. "Only one way to find out, isn't there?"

"Draco," Harry repeated again. "Be back in twenty minutes."

In other situation, it would have warranted a snide remark or an argument—or he would have pretended not to hear it altogether. But Draco paused, the words and the sudden new meaning they had echoing in his head.

He turned back, surprising the other man as he turned toward the kitchen for toast, and leaned in to say, "I'll see you in twenty, Potter."

Harry nodded, but after the door shut, he found himself unable to shake the smile off his lips; even the threat of the Ministry knowing about their little detour couldn't keep it away.

**::36::**

Sneaking into the library was much easier than it should have been. He was no less thankful for it though, because Draco did _not _have the energy for more than one child and despite everyone's advice to not have favorites, Connor was the one he wanted to see.

The boy looked up from his book. He regarded him curiously for a moment, and then said, "They said yesterday was your day off and that you had an appointment and that's why you didn't come see us."

Before Draco could begin to explain, he continued. "But I heard the _real _story." His eyes were aglow with excitement now, and he leaned in, "What'd you find, Mr. Malfoy? I won't tell anyone, I promise!"

The blonde man was quiet for a moment, settling beside him easily, before speaking. "First of all, I need you to promise me something else too."

Connor nodded quickly, as if nodding faster would get him share the answer to his question faster.

"Never, _ever _go anywhere without your wand, and never _ever _go without telling someone and bringing someone with you. In fact, I don't ever want you wandering—"

The boy rolled his eyes, as though he'd heard the same lecture before—which he probably did. "If I promise to make you the person I bring with me, will it be okay?"

Draco paused. "I think I can live with that arrangement for now."

"So what did you find?"

Despite how tired he was, and the fact that he hadn't showered or even changed his clothes yet, Draco realized that telling a story to Connor was probably the best thing about surviving—not just the strange mishap he'd just been involved in, but the war and everything else.

It all came down to this moment—that it was all worth it.

**::37::**

Having just arrived from the Malfoy Manor, Hermione planned on immediately telling Ginny about what she had found with Ron back at the centre before making any other decisions. More than one child was peering out the window.

She tried to pull him inside, but Ron looked at them and sighed, prepared to brave his wife's lecturing.

"I need to drop you off at the centre, Hermione, I've got to go back to work. The globe might be there, it's the best chance we've got—"

The woman shook her head. "You're taking me with you, then. I don't care what your co-workers say. Or that it's after-hours." She looked up at the sky, realizing that the time had gone by quickly—it was late morning, though it felt much later to her.

Ron grimaced. "Security's tight enough. I can do this myself, really!"

"And have you disappear too? Have you forgotten that no one else—aside from your sister and her fiancé—knows about this yet? You _need _me." Argued the bushy-haired woman heatedly.

"Yeah, Weasel, you _need _her," drawled a very familiar voice from the doorway, where Draco Malfoy, the man who had caused the very mess they were in, stood—and was very much alive.

The two stared at him in shock.

"Harry wants you to meet him at the flat." He pointed to the window beside him, "Since we have an audience here. I'll be there in a moment."

It wasn't at all true, but the last thing Draco wanted was for those two to spill the truth to the kids. Not even Connor knew the whole story.

Rather than sputter at him angrily, as Ron was about to do, Hermione took his arm and escorted him there quickly by disapparation—which turned out to be good timing, because by the time his mouth caught up with his brain, all that was in front of him was a door—Harry's front door.

Hermione found herself somewhat anxious about the truths that could be behind it.

….

_This, I hope, is the end of the oddly cut chapters—it was hard to find a way to get them to flow right, hence the varying lengths._

_Thanks for reading!_

_-B._


	15. Chapter 14

**::38::**

Harry was in the middle of eating his fourth slice of toast when a very loud knock interrupted the pleasant sensation of his hunger finally being sated. He froze at the sound, but went over to answer its call. Wisely, however, he paused to look through the peephole—if it was the Ministry, braving their wrath was something he did not feel up to.

Revealed in the small hole in front of him were his two best friends, and although he had seen them mad at them before, it had never been at the same time. He decided that whilst it wasn't _quite _as intimidating as, say, a whole crew of Aurors set to ship Draco away for kidnapping him or some other nonsense, it was still with more than a shred of anxiety that he found himself answering the door with.

Hermione and the simmering heat in her eyes needed to be defused first—her anger tended to be much more persistent than Ron's, though the latter's was much _easier _to elicit.

"We _just _arrived back, I swear—" Harry began, his hands up in front of his face as he wheeled backward, the last piece of his toast tucked firmly between one thumb and index finger.

Ron, with his fists still clenched, looked around as though Draco could be found. He had less of a bone to pick with his best mate, but his best mate's unfortunate choice in a boyfriend—he had a few choice words for him.

"Oh, Harry!" said Hermione in exasperation—which was never a good sign—"That isn't what we're angry about. How could you just run off like that, without your _wand? _It's bad enough that you were reckless enough to leave without consulting anyone else on your decision, but with Malfoy's got enemies in high places! You really could have gotten hurt!"

The dark-haired wizard, having shoved the rest of bread in his mouth in an attempt to keep himself from spouting something fairly venomous in defense of Draco—as it seemed like Hermione was suggesting the man had set a trap—kept quiet. As though reading his mind, she added, in a softer voice, "The _both _of you could have really gotten hurt, or worse, killed."

The red-haired man had yet to say a word, but the _moment _the door opened again and the Slytherin his rage was simmering for entered, he all but tackled him to the wall.

"_You!" _Howled Ron, _"You and your bloody plant! I'll have you in Azkaban so fast—"_

"Little help here, Potter?" muttered Draco, gesturing to the snarling Weasley pinning him down, "I mean, he's really not my type."

With some effort, the two remaining Gryffindors peeled the angry man away. It took some time to calm Ron down, but as Hermione busied herself in doing so, Harry turned and with crossed arms, said, "Thank you for the warning, Malfoy—I really could have done with a bit of mention about this on your part."

Holding one pale finger up, the blonde answered, "Ah, but I arrived home on time. Be glad, Potter. I wouldn't have had time to warn you about your lapdogs anyway—they were gone before the Weasel could throw the first punch."

Harry sighed. "Sit down, you've been up for far too long."

Recognizing the strain and exhaustion in his voice, and being reminded of his own, Draco slumped onto one of the stools and proceeded to scowl at the other two people in the room—and Ron glared right back.

_Stupid Gryffindors,_ he thought, _it was _their_ fault Harry was in a bad mood._

"So," Hermione said with a sense of cheer that even she could tell was falsified, "Shall we get takeaway?"

Ron seemed to loosen up somewhat with the promise of food, and ceased his glaring long enough to ask Harry what had happened in the forest—and what Snape had revealed to Hermione.

"Wait," interrupted Draco, his hand up to stop Harry from answering, resulting in another glare shot his way by the Auror, "You saw Snape?"

"His portrait, technically," corrected the bushy-haired woman gently. Snape's death was undoubtedly a difficult for the Slytherin—it had been widely publicized, as Voldemort slayed the man in front of the rest of the Deatheaters to "make an example" of what would happen to traitors. Though the blonde never explicitly mentioned whether he'd witnessed it or not, Hermione suspected he did.

"I know that," snapped the Slytherin, "How did you manage to see it at all if he's—" he stopped and corrected himself, "it's—locked away at Hogwarts?"

"We went to Hogwarts," Ron answered plainly, as though he thought the blonde to be a bit thick.

"I suppose when you're an Auror and best friends with Saint Potter, such things come easily," said Draco with a sneer "You're living the life, aren't you, Weasel? The one Mummy never gave you?"

"Malfoy!" chided Harry quickly. Thankfully Ron hadn't responded—verbally or physically—to the blatant goad, though it was clear he was holding back the impulse to bruise the man's face again.

The savior, for sake of everyone's sanity, decided to answer the question he'd been asked. "Well, I suppose it was a safehouse, in a way, wasn't it?" he looked at Draco, who was still fuming.

"I suppose," came the icy agreement.

About to launch into a full explanation—it really was more a question for the blonde, but he wasn't going to be answering any questions Ron asked him, so he took over—a knock, considerably less heavy than Ron's own, rang out into the room. "Delivery," said a deep voice.

After the money had been dispensed and the food sorted, Hermione found that she and Harry might as well had been having their own conversation, as the two other men were far too distracted in shoveling down forkfuls of rice to pay much attention to them or each other. This was a blessing.

Of course, shortly after the Auror finished, he told them all he'd be returning to work. Hermione supposed she couldn't argue it, though she knew that the first thing her husband would do was try to find that globe—something they hadn't mentioned to their company yet.

After they'd both promised to return the next evening, and Ron, having left the flat in a much better mood, asked, "So what was it that Harry was telling you about?"

The witch rolled her eyes, and told him she'd recite the story again over dessert— if he treated her.

Secretly being quite thankful—well, secretly on Harry's part, less so on Draco's—that their company had left, the two men collapsed on the bed and fell asleep quickly, prepared not to rouse for a long while.

**::39::**

Draco was not in the habit of finding meanings in his dreams, nor did he ever believe any of them had any real significance in his day-to-day activities. This was partly due to the fact that he tended to dream of odd things—like shape-shifting into an octopus whilst running from an Auror on land—but also because people like Trelawney seemed to suggest things like reading tea leaves to be a load of bollocks.

It couldn't be denied, though, that his most recent was something that had helped confirm one of the biggest decisions of his life.

It was of Snape—specifically, of the day he had been killed. It was like it was happening all over again, except this time it was somehow worse.

Snape's dark eyes had met his own seconds before Voldemort had finally uttered the words to render them lifeless.

For some reason it was, perhaps, the most chilling memory he would have of the war.

When it had happened, he hadn't made a sound.

But in the dream, things were different—it was raining (there had, in a grotesque sort of way, been beautiful weather out that day) and it was much darker than he remembered. He felt his hair sticking to his forehead, heard the stifled gasps of some of the women in the audience as curse after curse rang out—one he recognized as one Pansy would use on him later. Strangely, all that he could hear was Voldemort's voice—and the chilling hiss of Nagini. It was as though every other sound simply vanished.

He found himself screaming and screaming—part of him was terrified for doing so but the other part was further disturbed by the fact that he couldn't hear his voice at all.

It was early evening, and Potter was still beside him, not rousing from the sudden jolt that had woken Draco. He stepped out of the room as quietly as he could, thinking to grab his wand and murmur a silencing charm before retreating to the kitchen, where the lone lightbulb danced in the shadows, a bright white against the darkening sky.

He stood and stared blankly at the room for a moment, before remembering what it was that had brought him there. Spying a pen, he grabbed a spare piece of paper and began writing.

On the top, he printed, in bold letters: _Not Available for Negotiation._

After the page was filled with everything he could think of, he grabbed a fresh sheet and began writing down a new copy—one addressed to Granger. The third, much shorter than the last two, simply read:

_I, Draco Malfoy, hereby decline your contractual suggestions and request that you meet with me as soon as possible for further discussion on the matter._

_Best regards,_

_D. Malfoy_

He tucked the two addressed envelopes in his trouser pockets, checking to be sure that he had his wand, and disapparated to the Owlery.

Susan Bones would find that letter on her desk the next morning—and secretly, surprisingly, found herself glad to see it.

Hermione, however, received hers straightaway—because, upon second thought, just before attaching her mail to the lazy-looking barn owl above, the Slytherin decided to go and appear on her doorstep.

She wasn't used to company at that hour, but she had been waiting for Ron to arrive home from what he claimed was going to be a quick stop by the Ministry to "pick up some paperwork", otherwise known as code for "I can't stand waiting any longer, I _must _know what's in that evidence vault now!"

She let him go, because there were truffles she was waiting for, after all—and looked Draco in surprise.

"Up for a bit of reading, Granger?" he asked coolly, holding the envelope between his index and middle finger.

The bushy-haired woman stepped aside, letting him in, and took the letter from his hand. She was quiet for a long time. The man had poured himself a cup of tea after realizing the witch probably wouldn't offer it. She, predictably, didn't notice.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" Hermione asked finally.

The slender man said, "If I wasn't certain, Granger, I wouldn't have come to you at this hour. Now, can you help me or not?"

She paused. "Does Harry know?"

There was a nonchalant wave as Draco sipped at his tea. "He'll know soon enough."

"You're asking for a lot."

"If they're desperate enough, they won't argue."

"How do you know that the place you found yourself in wasn't a safehouse? How do you know there isn't anything else there that could cause the same reaction in those children? I mean, your father had—"

Draco shrugged. "I don't know those things, Granger—but you'll notice that I asked to be the one taking care of the safety arrangements, didn't I? I imagine it will go much faster that way."

The woman stared at him, as though picking apart his words—which she probably was. "What are you not telling me?"

"Nothing you haven't read on that parchment." The man set his dirtied teacup in the sink, readying to leave. "You know where to find me, I presume."

It was the truth, really—there was nothing he hadn't told her that she needed to know. His reasons for what appeared to be such a sudden move would remain private.

Because, the truth was, as much as he loved Connor and the rest of the kids, as much as he hated to watch them go stir-crazy and have to flat-out _deny _their background—their own magical background!—giving up the manor was partly out of selfishness on his part.

As his latest trial in the woods and his dream had reminded him: the Malfoy Manor wasn't the same place it used to be. His father and mother wouldn't be coming back, most of whom they entertained were dead or incarcerated (not to mention that he didn't care to see them anyway), and he simply couldn't picture himself ever getting a good night's sleep there.

There were too many memories, too many things to haunt him.

He never thought he'd ever hear himself concede defeat when the last family real heirloom was going to be taken, but he did.

It was time to leave the manor behind.

**::40:: **

Harry awoke shortly before Draco arrived home. He felt around for his glasses on the bedside table and left the bedroom, thinking he'd gone for another shower—or, more likely, bath.

Instead he found that the faucet had been untouched and that he wasn't in the kitchen. Worry gnawed at him, but it was quickly extinguished by the blonde hair that caught his eye when the front door creaked open.

Momentarily startled to see Potter simply standing there, _staring _at him like some zoo animal, the man flinched slightly, but didn't spill the hot chocolate in his hand—and perhaps more importantly, didn't drop the bag with the donut in it.

The bespectacled man, unaware of how they lay askew on his face, said, with some amusement, "Donuts? At this hour?" It hid the brief panic he had felt moments before.

Draco shrugged, setting the cup on the counter and taking a bite into the pastry—actually, it appeared to be the last bite—mumbling around the crumbs, "I 'as 'ungreh,"

Harry looked at him thoughtfully, leaning in to see if there happened to be another one. "Do I happen to get a bite?"

"No," came the response, after the food had taken its course, "but you can kiss it off if you like."

This struck him as a very good idea, because he leaned in right away and did so. After a moment, he parted from Draco's lips and said, "You bastard, you got my favorite kind and ate it all?"

"No," he answered, "I got _two," _a smile stretched his lips, "and then ate them both before I got here."

After an exaggerated look of hurt crossed Harry's face, and the ensuing dramatic commentary on the travesty of being cheated out of what was rightfully his, the blonde cut him off with a very long kiss—one that left him needing to breathe a little deeper.

Perhaps he had been in a slight stupor due to it, because he didn't notice the blonde take out another bag—and, after patiently uncurling the savior's hands, dropped it in them.

"Come on, Potter," said Malfoy, taking another sip of the hot chocolate, "Do you know how fattening those things are? I'd die before I had two."

Harry blamed it on the drawling tone, and the way his silver hair was slightly mussed in the light, and the smirk that was proving very irresistible not to meet with his own lips, but, and a tad ungracefully, he blurted out, "I love you."

Had the light been a bit dimmer, Harry wouldn't have seen the slight tinge of pink that rose in his pale features at all.

"All for a donut? My, you really are a slut, Potter." Came the slightly predictable drawl, though it was nearly a purr at that point. He leaned in to kiss him again, the same, long kiss he'd felt moments prior, and then in the softest whisper, against the shell of his ear, _"I love you too."_

The green-eyed wizard knew better than to contest it—it was quiet enough so that Draco could deny it as a figment of his imagination if he wanted to.

He smiled, knowing he hadn't imagined a thing.


	16. Chapter 15

**::41::**

Perhaps it was because he was the highest authority on one, if not the biggest, case the Ministry had ever seen, that Ronald Weasley's late arrival seemed to go unnoticed.

It didn't explain the ease he had when getting the keys to the vaults that held the manor's contents—no one seemed to blink. One flash of his Auror's badge—the nature of his authority had a temporary seal beneath it—and that was all they needed.

He had sent in a note the day before to the secretary informing them to not expect him that day, and possibly the next, due to a stomach flu.

He rarely took days off—just taking lunch was out of character for him—and the ginger-haired man found himself marveling at the difference between the lazy boy at Hogwarts who procrastinated at every turn and the workaholic he had become.

Maybe Hermione had rubbed off on him.

Maybe it was just that, for the most part, he loved the work that he did. Having a partner never sat well with him—years ago, when he and Harry had talked about it, he'd gotten the image that the savior would be following him straight there. He'd never managed to shake it, and despite having to contest it many times whenever a rookie happened to come by, he much preferred being on his own. Hermione hated it—she didn't think it was safe, and seeing all the damage that could be done through the war, it sent her into a right panic sometimes if she thought about it for too long.

Harry didn't know, but they'd nearly called off the wedding because of it. She hadn't been sure if she could fully come to terms with what she called his "reckless behavior" and they'd spent a few weeks apart before realizing that it made each other even more miserable.

The Auror's current case, however, came with a great deal of responsibility he hadn't encountered before. It was at a standstill, and had been for a few weeks—much to the chagrin of quite a few Ministry officials, but even they knew Ron wasn't to blame for it. It didn't stop them, of course, from trying to claim it, but the fact was, the Ministry had gone on a witch hunt at the end of the war.

Countless witnesses that should had been kept coherent were given the Kiss quicky, just to sate the bloodthirsty audience that roared for revenge.

As a result, the few Death Eaters that had been spared such a fate chose to keep their mouths shut. Not because they thought they'd ever escape, but because it _amused _them that the Ministry had inadvertently given them so much power. This smugness was particularly strong in Blaise Zabini—who had known from the start that his in-depth knowledge of Death Eater operations would make him a strong candidate for three square meals a day and a cot to sleep on—and in Pansy Parkinson.

Ron had avoided saying anything about her around Harry, just because he knew that the man would have been upset to know she was being treated with even the basic care and civility that a prisoner could be. Her trial had also been postponed indefinitely, along with the other Death Eaters they caught that night. With the exception of Harry's case—the attempted murder of him, more specifically—in which she quite proudly detailed her involvement and implicated more than three other people in it, there had been no developments at all.

Even the Ministry didn't like how quickly Harry Potter's attempted murder (they didn't consider Draco's safety, but no one had really stopped to remember or, perhaps more accurately, cared, that he, too, lived there—and that Pansy had been targeting him specifically) had been solved. It had been a case to feed to the press and build up their credibility—anything Harry Potter was gobbled up quite quickly, but it would have given the public the illusion that the Ministry was actually doing something.

It was for this reason that they were putting off making an announcement of the case being closed. Harry Potter was the last weapon in their arsenal.

They were simply at a standstill. No one wanted to say anything, no one wanted to do anything. Torture tactics were outlawed but it didn't stop the Ministry from considering them.

It also didn't stop the Ministry from warring with Draco Malfoy about a contract for his assistance in the case. They knew that the longer they fought with him, the longer the Death Eater trials would be paused, but some sort of foolish pride still seemed more important than admitting their need for help—especially Draco Malfoy's.

If there was one thing Ron had to admit, it was that the Ministry seemed to believe that the ex-Death Eater was the magical cure to all their woes. He had the nagging feeling that it wasn't so—but perhaps he was just biased.

He stopped short, looking at the towering vaults around him, and realized he didn't remember the walk there at all. Shrugging, he continued down the long corridors—the vaults looked like houses built with stone, except there were no windows and the entryways were large, heavy steel doors. Each one had a number etched into it.

There were seventeen vaults in total reserved for the Death Eater case, though only six had been used, three of them filled with things from the Malfoy Manor raid.

Upon opening the first vault, the Auror found that he'd greatly underestimated a few things about his trip there in the first place.

First, he found that the doors were incredibly heavy—he was panting for breath after just managing to open it wide enough to squeeze through.

Secondly, the vaults themselves held a great amount of evidence. Ron looked up at the towering shelves and, as though someone had gotten lazy, the eventual disarray further down into the structure. There was no apparent organization, so it wasn't as though he could simply look under 'G' for globe or 'M' for map.

Much like the rest of the case, a metaphorical wall had suddenly greeted him.

Cursing the Ministry and its inability to run efficiently, the ginger-haired man found himself giving up before even attempting to find what he was looking for, and returned to his office in a very bad mood.

It was worsened by the note he found on his desk—it was asking for a summary of the events of the night of Pansy Parkinson's capture. He'd been putting it off for a while, mostly because it seemed pointless to write about a case that hadn't even been completed yet, but the Ministry didn't see it that way.

Ron found himself wishing he'd taken the rest of the day off after all.

**::42::**

Harry was in the middle of eating some leftover takeaway for breakfast when the mail came. It almost felt like things were back to normal—both men had gotten up and began getting ready, silently agreeing to go to the centre. He got up from his seat and tended to the bird, finding that there was only one envelope for him today.

In fact, it wasn't for him at all—it was addressed to Draco, with the official Ministry seal. The green-eyed wizard didn't need to ask to know what it was about. He set it on the table beside him, despite having the urge to open it. It stared at him throughout the rest of his breakfast, and Harry found himself wishing that its addressee would get out of the bloody shower already.

After a long twenty minutes, the aforementioned blonde exited the bathroom, and though he had planned to get dressed first, Harry's interruption distracted him from it.

"You have mail. From the Ministry."

Wordlessly, Draco padded over to the counter, goosebumps rising over his bare skin as the air brushed against him, the towel around his waist doing little to keep him warm.

_Well, _he thought to himself, _that was a very fast response. _

The sound of paper rustling in the silence filled his ears, and the Slytherin noted how closely Potter was watching him. This unsettled him somewhat, as he knew that once the discovery of his decision to relinquish the Malfoy Manor and bequeath it to those at the centre came to light, he'd have to listen to a long whinge about how such large decisions should really had been mentioned before he made them, or something along that line.

The wizard who had called him over found himself very distracted by a droplet of water that was currently making its way down the man's pale neck, picking up weight as it rolled over his collar bone. It was almost enough to distract him from the point of his presence at all, which was to find out what the letter said.

"Well?" Harry prodded impatiently after a good thirty seconds.

The sheet of paper bumped him in the nose as Draco handed it to him on his way into the kitchen for some food of his own, drawling, "Read it yourself."

Noting the distinct lack of anger or disappointment, he did, both curious and suspicious about it.

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_Thank you for your response. You have been scheduled for a meeting and contract agreement at two o' clock tomorrow._

_If this is not convenient, please let us know as soon as possible so we may reschedule._

Harry ignored the signature at the bottom and asked, in a sharper tone than he'd meant to, "Contract agreement? What contract agreement?"

The man this was directed to took his sweet time spreading the jam on his toast, ignoring the silent irritation that rippled off of the savior as he did so.

"Malfoy!" he snapped.

He flinched at that, berating himself immediately for doing so—but Harry hadn't called him that in a long time, at least not when it was just the two of them, and he knew it meant that the anger behind the name choice would take a while to soothe.

"Relax, Potter," said Draco smoothly, "I've just made the manor the new place for the centre—I was stringent on my own terms, of course, but they seem…accommodating enough. This is good news."

It apparently seemed to be the opposite to Harry. "You couldn't mention this before you went and made one of the biggest decisions of your life?"

"It _is _my house, Potter. I think I'm old enough to choose what I want to do with it." The blonde took a bite of his toast, as though the other man's reaction was entirely unreasonable.

"I've been involved with the centre from day one," said Harry icily, "You don't think that warrants a _bit _of a forewarning when it comes to such a move? What, do you want the others to find out from someone else? They could have posted an eviction notice or something, the panic alone—"

"It's not like I sent that letter off without consulting someone." It was meant to be a consolation, but as soon as he said it, Draco knew he'd said the wrong thing, because a flash of both indignation and hurt crossed Potter's face.

"Well, I'm very glad you had the foresight to _consult _someone," snapped the Gryffindor, who rose from his seat and dumped his dishes in the sink, ignoring the loud clatter they made, "Just like I'm glad to know just how important I seem to be." Knowing who had been consulted wasn't something he cared to know about, and had he known, it would have just fueled his rage further.

And just like that, the events of the night before—more specifically, what they had finally admitted to each other, seemed to be erased and forgotten.

The blonde wisely kept this to himself, wincing at the way the bedroom door slammed before the silence—and its accompanying tension—filled the room.

**::43::**

Draco had no way of knowing, but Hermione had experienced a similar sort of reaction from her significant other the night before.

Ron came home later that night, exhausted and looking like he'd had an awful day. It was for that reason she didn't even mention the truffles, and actually had wished she'd made something rather than just assume leftover meatloaf was a viable option for dinner. It was at the table, warm and waiting for him.

He didn't seem to hold it against her, though, and, after slumping at the table, took a few bites. After a long silence, he noticed the stacks of books on the counter, and said, "What were you looking up?"

Hermione looked at the books he was referring too, and paused for a moment. "Oh, just something for Malfoy. For the contract with the Ministry, you know."

He appeared to take her answer without thinking much of it—but after a moment he said, "Wait, I thought we were going over tomorrow to talk about that with them? The four of us?"

"Well," she answered hesitantly, "there was a slight change of plans, and I guess Draco changed his mind on fighting with the Ministry at all and sent them—"

Hearing his wife refer to him as _Draco _had always bothered him somewhat, but tonight it seemed particularly more irritating. "What are you talking about? What did he do?"

"Er, he wanted to use the Malfoy Manor—well, donate it—to the centre. He has some other requirements, and he has some good ideas, if he approaches this right, we could get a really good deal—"

"Without consulting anyone else?" snapped the Auror, "Who does he think he is? We're all in this together, he has no right to act solely on his own benefit!"

Hermione didn't answer, looking at the stack of books quite pointedly. Then she said, very quietly—a tone she never used in their arguments, usually she was heated and as vocal as he was—"Well, technically, he came to me. He gave me a copy of his terms, but I didn't tell him to send the letter, he'd already sent it—"

"That doesn't—"

"Will you stop interrupting me, Ronald! For Merlin's sake! If you want a bloody answer, at least listen to whole thing before going off!" snapped the woman finally, who'd grown fed up with her husband's impatience.

He looked at her, apparently not feeling the least bit chastened, because he said, "That's beside the point. You should have told him that he was being a selfish git—I bet he didn't even tell Harry, did he?"

Being on Draco's side over Harry's and her husband's wasn't something she ever expected to happen, but now that it had, Hermione found it uncomfortable. She hated fighting with either of them to begin with, but it wasn't like Malfoy was the sort to be particularly consoling over such a matter.

"If you've finished," she said coolly, "you can wash the dishes. I'm going to the library."

Whether she meant their personal one or the local one, he wasn't sure—had he been thinking clearly, it would have dawned on him that the latter wasn't even open at this hour.

"You do that," Ron muttered, looking at his meatloaf as she retreated from the dining room.

**::44::**

The tension between Harry and Draco didn't lessen in the least as the day continued, and though they both found themselves in the same place for it, each pretended as though the other wasn't there. The savior, taking over for Ginny—her twins were due in a week or less—was thankful that he had a physical barrier between him and the Slytherin. The kitchen became his safe retreat—he enlisted the help of one of the caretakers to carry out meals and bring back dishes, just so he wouldn't have to leave.

Neville was also missing, presumably with his fiancé, and Hermione had apparently come to take his place, perched in the dining hall with a very severe expression, looking much like McGonagall as she did so. She, too, appeared to be in a bad mood, and so Harry decided to leave her be.

It was in the kitchen, later that day, that Harry was eventually greeted by a friendly face—Mrs. Weasley.

"Harry!" she said with great warmth, "Oh, it's so good to see you. When did you get here? I've been upstairs all day, I wish I'd known you were coming, dear."

"It's okay," he said, forcing a smile, "Thanks for your help."

The woman sighed. "It really is quite a place to run, isn't it? I came as fast as I could—I wanted to stay with Ginny, of course, but Neville's been missing her, so I decided to come here while he rests. Charlie wanted to come too, but he wasn't able to leave work."

Harry didn't respond, and let her continue—she was helping him prepare some sandwiches and other things for meals later in the day and that week as she spoke. The house elves bustled around him as well, washing the dishes and occasionally asking, in high-pitched voices, what else they could do.

Not having as much experience in seeing how this side of the centre was run—or perhaps he just hadn't paid as much attention to it—he was surprised to see just how much they depended on the house elves much more than they had prior—and how much they seemed to embrace the extra work. It appeared that, as long as the house elves were around, they could get by—at least when it came to feeding everyone and cleaning up.

Harry vowed to remember to thank them in some way after this was all over.

"I can't believe that man is here," said Molly darkly, and it was such a change of tone that he wondered just what he'd tuned out, "Draco Malfoy, really! These are _victims _of _his _actions! He has no right to be here."

Though she had clearly made the same rant many times before, Harry let her continue, trying to avoid defending the man she obviously didn't know was his boyfriend—partly as an immature and spiteful move toward the blonde over their argument earlier.

"Yeah, no right," he echoed distantly, ignoring the pang of guilt he felt.

….

_This is almost over! It's kind of sad, really._

_Thanks for reading!_


	17. Chapter 16

**::45::**

Keeping the younger inhabitants of the building entertained was much harder work than simply running it. Though someone had wisely gone to get movies of varying genres to keep their interest in such a sedentary activity higher than they would have been otherwise, the television was still less effective two weeks in for most of the children—only five or six seemed to have the capacity to watch it all day without getting antsy.

Draco hadn't gotten much of a chance to talk to Connor that day, but he stayed close by and at least listened to his request that he not sneak off anywhere.

He watched two boys begin to pull at each other's hair for no apparent reason, and decided that something needed to give. Why no one had thought of it before was beyond him, but there was no reason their current group couldn't be taken to the park on a rotating basis—the younger group first, and the older group second—much like they'd run the centre before, when there were still lessons. He found himself pondering the subject further—why _had _no one thought of that?

Then the reminder of his involvement hit him, and it occurred to him that Harry might have been the one to organize that—until the chaos that Pansy caused had turned his life backwards.

It was at that moment that he had to admit that he felt guilty—Potter had a point. He really had been one of the people that helped run the centre, and all the distraction that the blonde had caused made things worse. Perhaps the only silver lining to his insight was that donating the manor was the right thing to do—even if he'd fucked things up a little in the process.

Granger was moping in the corner, and though he didn't particularly want to ask why, he figured she would tell him anyway—the Slytherin made himself walk over and say, "I have an idea,"

The woman stared at him in slight indignation, and Draco found himself wondering just _what _he had just said that was so offensive, but his bewilderment didn't last long—she made sure to tell him. "It was a shitty move you pulled, Malfoy. Sending that letter and everything without even telling Harry."

In the corner of his eye, he could see the two boys dangerously close to using their fists. "Look, Granger, you're right, it was. It was impulsive and needlessly so, but I really don't have time to talk about that—you and I have to take some of these kids to the park before they kill each other."

She looked at him in surprise, but he knew it was more about his admittance of being wrong than borderline commanding her to do something.

"We can't watch this many kids on our own."

"No, we can't—but we can handle half of them, can't we? The other half can stay here and then we'll just rotate groups, like we did for lessons."

The witch seemed to think this a fairly decent idea, because nothing about her expression suggested disagreement. "Fine," she said finally, "But you have to make up with Harry first—and don't you dare deny that there's something wrong."

"For Merlin's sake, woman," grumbled the other, "Don't you think preventing a fistfight and general pandemonium a _bit _more important than my love life?" Her observational skills could be very annoying.

"Go on," she said dismissively, "I'll start sorting them into groups."

He heard her begin to tell everyone to pay attention, and recite the rules as well as behavior expected of them. Draco could imagine Connor rolling his eyes at her, especially when she was going to tell them to "hold hands whilst we walk down the pavement until we get to the park".

Knowing how stubborn the Gryffindor could be, however, he took a page out of the boy's book and just rolled his eyes. Walking into the kitchen, where he knew her friend had been hiding all day, Draco found something, or rather, someone, she didn't know about—the red-haired woman beside him…the one that, he was quite certain, hated his guts.

The way Mrs. Weasley stared at him definitely suggested it, and Draco supposed it shouldn't have surprised him, but the intensity of the stare was a bit difficult to meet.

He tried to nod at her cordially, but she didn't acknowledge it.

"Er, Potter," he began, trying very hard not to squirm, "May I talk to you?"

"Talk to me?" echoed the wizard, turning around to face him, "Oh, yes, do feel free to talk to me, Malfoy—I'm surprised you've bothered, though."

The pale man rolled his eyes. "Good to see you've retained your maturity."

If Mrs. Weasley was confused about the way their exchange was going, she didn't show it—and her stare didn't waver. "What is it, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked coolly, thinking her interjection to be helpful.

"Gr—Hermione had the idea of splitting the kids up into groups and taking them to the park. Could you watch one group whilst we do that? Your help would be greatly appreciated too, Mrs. Weasley." Draco reckoned that if it was the witch's idea instead of his own, they would be more likely to agree with it.

"Sure," Harry said coolly, just as the woman beside him said, "Absolutely not!"

The man that they had such different responses had never felt appreciative and offended at the same time—and it was an odd thing to feel.

The two looked at each other briefly, and then she continued, "I'm sorry, Harry, but I'm simply not comfortable with—"

"It's fine, Mrs. Weasley," countered her favored company in the room, "Draco's good with the kids. They like him, and they like Hermione."

The woman pursed her lips, as though finding this even more disagreeable, but since it was coming from Harry, the Boy-that-Saved-Them-All, she seemed to have difficulty arguing it. There was a long silence.

"Very well," she said finally, putting a dishtowel on the counter, "I'll go and see what I can help Hermione with." She brushed past Draco with as much coolness as her tone possessed.

"You should go too," Harry said, after she'd left, shifting his gaze to the abandoned dishtowel beside him.

As if intent on rebelling everything he said, the man came closer—not enough to be terribly intimate, but enough to suggest they knew each other—and the darker-haired wizard tensed. "The door's behind you," he whispered, feeling quite stupid after he said it.

Draco waited for the eyes fixated on the dishtowel to meet his. "Harry," he said softly, one hand reaching out to rest against his hip, "I'm sorry. I should have told you, and it was stupid of me not to, I was just—I wasn't really thinking, I just wanted it over with."

"Over with?" It came out rough—the Gryffindor wasn't letting him get away with his actions easily, it appeared.

"The war, Pansy, everything. I'm as tired of it as you are." He whispered, though more out of consideration for those who might be eavesdropping rather than effect. "It's not that you aren't important, I just…"

The frown on Harry's face loosened into a small smile. "I know. We'll talk about it later, yeah? You should probably go rescue Hermione from Mrs. Weasley. Take your wand."

The taller man didn't move for a moment, seeming content just to stand there, his fingers resting lightly against the fabric of his trousers, but in the middle of turning away, he heard the Weasel's mother walk in.

All that her Golden Boy saw, however, was a very mischievous-looking smirk—one that bewildered him for half a moment before Draco kissed him. While Harry would admit that it was a nice kiss, he also knew it was one to spite the audience they had, and he pulled away.

Draco didn't like public displays much, and Harry really was quite neutral on the idea, but leave it to Draco to make a game of it—then he liked it plenty.

"'Bye," Draco whispered, with a grin, ignoring the green eyes that rolled at him, a blush forming on the olive cheeks beneath them.

The woman with fiery hair was trying very hard not to gape at them, and she also tried to muster up a stare of iciness but failed miserably, presumably because the display of affection was just far too much to process.

"See you later, Mrs. Weasley," said the blonde, quite innocently, before leaving.

**::46::**

The second group was considerably less work than the first, possibly because they tended to have much longer attention spans. Even Hermione was impressed, however, when she saw that no one had managed to go missing or break a bone whilst playing with the football they'd brought along.

Even Connor, typically one to stay back and on his own, joined in.

The two adults found themselves standing side-by-side as they watched. Hermione would sneak glances at him, following the line of sight the Slytherin had.

"Draco," she began, "I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier."

The blonde shrugged, surprisingly not gloating over her apology like she thought he would.

"Have you thought about adopting him?"

That was enough to pull his attention from the children in front of him, the surprise registering on his face. He caught himself quickly, however.

He'd thought of it frequently—though dared not to admit it, not even to Harry, because it seemed to be one of those things that was bound to blow up in his face.

"Granger," he began, in a drawl, "Who would let _me _adopt anyone? I'm not married. I'm an ex-Death Eater. My wage is nonexistent. Not to mention the whole shagging blokes thing, which doesn't fit into the 'ideal family structure' that everyone preaches on about."

Hermione, knowing well enough by now that his nonchalance was a front when it needed to be, rolled her eyes at him. "That's bollocks, Malfoy. If you're willing to go as far as you have for the centre already, willing to fight them tooth and nail on something as important as funding, I know you wouldn't rest until you won whatever case they might have against you for adopting Connor."

The Slytherin was quiet for a moment. He supposed he should have thanked her for her faith, but he didn't. "And if I don't win, Granger? What am I supposed to tell him? 'Sorry, they don't like that I've shacked up with Harry, I can't take you with me,'? Furthermore, what if they tried to keep me from seeing him at all—"

"They wouldn't dare," Hermione spat out heatedly, the idea apparently realistic enough to set fire to her veins, and she took a moment to calm down. "My point is, Draco, you should consider it. You're not alone, you know—you'd have support."

"You and Potter? Somehow I don't think that's quite enough to win over a jury of my peers."

"And Ron!" she said, a bit too earnestly.

Draco rolled his eyes. "If his mother is any indication, I think it's going to take _him _some time before he thinks of me as anything but as rodent-like as I see him."

"He will, eventually," she said, ignoring the slight insult in his comment.

_Strange, _he thought, _I think I've actually made friends with Granger. _He wasn't sure how it had happened, because he thought that rift between the three Gryffindors and him would be there forever.

Instead, it appeared to be closing, and he wasn't sure what to think of it.

Meanwhile, Harry found himself having a conversation he didn't particularly want to, and it was all Draco's fault.

"I was unaware that you were…seeing him," To her credit, Mrs. Weasley tried her hardest to be as civil as she could about her latest discovery, but she couldn't manage to hide her disapproval completely. Whether it was about Harry seeing a man, or Harry seeing Draco Malfoy was undetermined—but he remembered how much she fussed about Bill's hair and earring.

"_She's a bit old-fashioned." _He remembered Ginny say—and Harry wasn't going to be surprised if that tendency meant she was a bit…close-minded when it came to two blokes in bed. She _was _from a pureblood family, it wasn't _entirely _far-fetched.

"Er, yes, I am. It was one of those unexpected situations."

"Does anyone else know?" She asked stiffly, as though she were afraid of the answer.

Harry found himself wishing the group they were watching weren't so fixated on the bloody TV. He really didn't want to answer questions about his love life to the woman he felt that was sort of his adoptive mother.

"We don't announce it, if that's what you're asking. Ron and Herm know. I don't know about anyone else."

The woman pondered his words quietly, and then said, "Just be careful, Harry, hmm? I worry about you, you know."

He just nodded, glad that she had the foresight to keep her interrogations at bay.

_First of all, a note on Mrs. Weasley, whom some of you might find OOC in this story: I always thought Mrs. Weasley would have been a little close-minded in terms of homosexual relationships. I know she loved Dumbledore, and I know she didn't agree with the whole 'purebloods are the best' thing, but regardless that was my interpretation of her._

_Secondly, university has started up again which means I won't be able to update as frequently. I will try to update once a week—I've gotten into the habit of writing chapters in advance. However, I may not always be able to— I'll try my hardest because I really appreciate all of my readers and your support. :)_

_Thank you for reading and staying with me this far,_

_B._


	18. Chapter 17

**::47::**

"I want to come with you."

It was the hundredth time Draco had heard it, and his answer, much like ninety-nine times before did not change: "You can't, Potter. Granger's much more knowledgable about this sort of thing than you are, and it's not as though you can leave twenty-five kids to that woman."

Harry sighed. "I know."

The blonde briefly thought about putting one hand on his shoulder before noticing that Mrs. Weasley was eyeing them again. She'd been doing quite a bit of it since their display the day before, and though Harry hadn't said anything, he suspected she had her _reservations _about them.

Connor tore his attention away from her when he came to stand beside him. It didn't matter where Draco happened to be—if he was there, so was Connor. The Slytherin suspected many had given up on ever having the boy listen to them when he was around, and part of him liked it that way.

"Are you coming with us to the park again?" he asked, and it was the question that his elder had been hoping to avoid.

"No, not today. I've got an important meeting. I'm sorry." The downcast expression lasted a brief moment before fluttering away, a forced smile in its place, though it was unmistakable. He wanted to promise that he'd come by after, but he didn't want to make any he couldn't keep.

If it had been just the two of them, Connor would have asked what the meeting was for, and why he had to go, and why couldn't someone else go—but with Harry around, he chose not to argue. It was one of those things, when Draco thought about it, that made him so fond of the boy to begin with.

He supposed he just really liked being a favourite.

"Well, tomorrow, then?" Connor asked, and Draco nodded.

"Tomorrow. Maybe I'll join you, hm?"

"No, you won't," interjected Harry quickly, shooting him a look, "and Connor would _tell _me if you chose to do it anyway, now wouldn't you, Connor?"

The blonde rolled his eyes, and Connor grinned. "Sure, Harry. I'd tell you."

At a quarter to two, Hermione greeted the three and said, "Ready to go, Draco?" She was suspiciously lacking in books and files, but the moment Harry saw the purse around her wrist—she typically hated purses—he knew she had brought everything they would need, and more.

"Lead the way, Granger," he answered, giving a short wave to Harry and Connor.

Out in the parking lot, Hermione said, "That boy loves you, you know."

Draco knew she didn't mean Harry. "I know." He answered simply, before disappearing before her eyes.

The witch rolled her eyes. He clearly thought she was going to give up easily. She had to remind herself that Draco had never really known her at all—but he would find out just how far she could push someone.

**::48::**

Much unlike the last time that he had been there, Draco found it much easier to walk through the familiar corridor. It wasn't anything to do with the fact that he could actually do so—there wasn't an audience following his every move like the last one. The blonde wondered what that implied for the meeting.

Susan Bones greeted him and Hermione at the door of the conference room where they had gone before, and instead of having to wait, Scrimgeour was there already. His advisor—the annoying blonde git Draco had decided he hated—was nowhere to be seen, but the Weasel was in attendance as well.

"To clarify," began Scrimgeour, after the niceties had been observed and the letter he had written in his hands, "you're requesting that you have full authority on the renovation of the Malfoy Manor prior to its full bequeathal, and that whilst renovations are in progress, that we help secure some temporary employees to help with running it as well as the eventual move?"

"Yes." Draco said simply, hands folded neatly in front of him.

"You're also apparently requesting that," Scrimgeour peered closer at the paper as if he couldn't read what was before him, "that we agree to begin looking for these employees no later than…is that _three _business days?"

"Three business days after the contract has been signed, yes." He answered smoothly. He knew, logically, that three business days was ridiculous—but when they would negotiate on a better time frame, he would get what he originally wanted—which was ten. They were all requests that Scrimgeour would had denied immediately if the Ministry wasn't desperate for his help. The blonde thought that if any time was a better time to make some risky moves, it was now.

"And finally, you would like for these renovations to be finished in three months, shortly before the end of the summer."

It wasn't a question, but Draco said, "Yes, ideally. We would like our preparatory lessons for the public to coincide with the start of the year for other schools, so that those who can, may start school only a term behind as opposed to two."

"This is, frankly, the most ridiculous set of requests anyone has ever sent me, Mr. Malfoy, do you know that? The expectations alone that you have—do you really think we'd be able to fulfill them?"

He saw Hermione freeze in the corner of his eye, but Draco knew what the man was doing and called his bluff. He smiled, one that, to Ron, looked dangerously arrogant, and said, "If you want me to fulfill your expectations, Mr. Scrimgeour, then I would say it is only fair that you fulfill mine."

"I have two compromises on your terms, before we go further into my own," the man said, and Draco motioned for him to continue. "One being that we have fourteen days upon official agreement to begin signing employees."

"Ten," said Draco, "I'd like to begin working on the manor as soon as possible, you see."

The brown eyes narrowed slightly at him but otherwise he gave no sign of receiving the answer.

Ron felt like he and Hermione could have not attended at all, and that whatever the outcome to the meeting happened to be would still be there. Susan Bones, who happened to busying herself with notes, felt the same way.

"Ten it is," said Scrimgeour, backing down. "Because you're requesting access to a property that is technically Ministry property—"

Draco's eyes flashed with the slightest indignation but he was wise enough not to share it.

"—we would feel most comfortable if you had a partner in the field with you. An Auror. For safety purposes as well as security reasons, Mr. Malfoy—surely you understand?"

The man looked at Ron, the first acknowledgement of his presence since the beginning of the meeting, and instantly Draco saw the connection.

"You want me to work with _him?" _he said, barely able to hide his distaste.

Hermione kicked Ron in the shin just in time—the Auror didn't answer truthfully and said, "Is that your request, sir?"

"It is, Auror Weasley. You're the head of this investigation. It makes the most sense that you accompany Mr. Malfoy on this."

The ginger-haired man nodded. "If Mr. Malfoy agrees, I have no problem with that."

Hermione shot the blonde man a look, as though suggesting to him that he not completely _blow _the meeting based on petty rivalry.

Looking as though he'd swallowed something bitter, but heeding the wordless advice, Malfoy responded, "Yes, Mr. Scrimgeour, I will accept that term as well."

"It seems like we'll be able to sort this out relatively quickly then," said the man, seeming quite pleased, "You, in turn, would be agreeing to three things."

He held up one finger. "After a standard background check with Veritaserum, we have your full cooperation and assistance in raiding these safehouses—a stipend can be negotiated later."

A second finger rose. "We have your testimony and witness at Pansy Parkinson's trial."

Draco appeared to hesitate at that for a moment, though it wasn't for the reasons the others thought it to be. "Only Pansy's?"

"That is correct. Our aim is to get as much information from her as we can, and we think you can help us with that."

Ron found it odd that they not enlist his help for the other Death Eaters, but wisely chose not to comment on it.

"What's your third?" asked the blonde finally.

"Our third request," said Scrimgeour, after a moment, during which Susan Bones looked particularly tense, "is that you exercise the upmost secrecy regarding your involvement with this case. Because of this, we're asking for you to wear an invisibility cloak. Protective detail would pick you up and bring you to the facility you needed to be at that day, and would bring you back to your residence."

In other words, if word got out that the Ministry was actually asking and accepting his help, it would entail a shitstorm no one wanted to deal with. Draco supposed that, had his terms been contested, he would have felt offended, but the blonde found that he didn't particularly care. He was, however, glad that Harry wasn't beside him, because the man surely would have found something to say about that.

When the paperwork finally came out, Draco read through them, the silence by that point tense enough. The man across from him straightened up as the last page came into view—it was a very short document, no more than six or seven pages—and slumped slightly when the wizard went back to the first page and skimmed through it again.

He was intent on making sure that he was getting what he wanted, that much was for certain. Whilst Scrimgeour privately admired the wise move, it wasn't in his favour—and so his resentment was much stronger.

After he'd finished reading, he immediately shifted the papers over to Hermione, who seemed slightly embarrassed by the move. "I like to have someone check things over," the blonde said coolly, and Scrimgeour simply forced a smile.

"Take your time." He said, the look in his eyes suggesting that his impatience was slowly growing painful, which was exactly what Draco Malfoy wanted.

Hermione wished that she could have looked at their proposal alone, because the three pairs of eyes on her were more than somewhat unnerving, but Draco would have suggested it had he thought there needed to be more time.

His strategy was fast and offered such little room for error, but it offered less chance for the Ministry to back down, as well. Hermione supposed their prior experience with them had affected the blonde's business tactics, and she knew his father had taught Draco just how to conduct himself with business agreements in general.

His grey eyes met her own when she handed the papers back—a glint of something predatory stirred within them, and the witch recognized it as the icy glint Lucius Malfoy's stare always seemed to have.

"Let's sign, then, shall we?"

Scrimgeour seemed more than happy to supply a pen.

**::49::**

Draco didn't come back to the centre that day, much to Connor's chagrin.

At half past five, the savior happened to run into someone he hadn't seen in a while—Harvey. The man had grown skittish and reserved—well, more so—after all that had happened, and Harry suspected he was avoiding him for a reason.

"Harvey," he smiled, trying to make it known that he had no hard feelings about his role in the destruction of his former home, "It's good to see you. I haven't seen you for a while—are you doing well?"

Harvey dared not to meet the green eyes that were on him. "Yes, fine, Mr. Potter. I've taken over the night shifts. My wife comes with me."

The bespectacled wizard blinked at him for a moment. He had been unaware that he even had a wife. Part of him felt guilty for not knowing—it seemed to be that Harvey hadn't disappeared at all. Harry had simply not noticed.

"Well, I appreciate your help, and I'm sure that everyone else does, too. Give my best to your wife, will you?"

He nodded mutely to Harry's warm regards, and stalked away awkwardly. It was almost like the centre had its own Filch, except this one was much more mild-mannered and easily startled.

A twinge of guilt hit him again, and the savior heard Draco's drawling commentary in his head—_You have the biggest guilt complex known to man, Potter. Relax, will you? I hear being a martyr shaves years off your life expectancy._

As for the Slytherin's absence, Harry had half-expected for it to turn out that way, as he knew how long meetings could take with the Ministry. After Harvey had skulked away, he waved to Mrs. Weasley, who happened to speaking to a woman he didn't recognize. He wondered if it was Harvey's wife.

The ginger-haired woman had left him alone for the most part that day—but he also made sure that he happened, or appeared, to be in deep discussion with someone—usually Connor—when she made an appearance. If the boy noticed, he didn't say anything.

It wasn't that he didn't love Mrs. Weasley, it was simply that things had gotten a bit awkward and he was waiting for them to pass. He dared not to tell Ron or Ginny, because the last thing he needed was them trying to intervene and make things worse.

It was also the reason he chose not to mention it to the boyfriend that the woman was less than fond of.

He couldn't help but feel a little anxious, however, when he arrived home to their flat and found it empty. Whether it was a good or bad sign, he couldn't tell, and it was driving him mad.

At fifteen past six, the door finally opened and Draco made his way inside, his hair sticking to his face. He peeled off his jacket and set it on the counter, settling onto one of the stools as he did so.

"It's raining?" Harry asked, temporarily distracted by what his arrival would bring him.

Draco looked at him like he was daft. "Yes, Potter, it _does _happen to be raining. Your observational skills seem to be sharpening every day."

He ignored the jab, his impatience returning quickly. "So, how did it go?"

The blonde shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. They agreed to every term I had, so I suppose—"

"You never did tell me what they were," interjected Harry. The lack of knowledge on that part didn't stop him from smiling, however—a burst of excitement exploded in his chest.

"How about," began Draco, rising to step closer where he stood, his hand resting against his side firmly, "you take me out to dinner, and I'll tell you all about it, hmm?"

"I suppose I'm paying too, aren't I?" he breathed, their noses nearly grazing.

Draco just smiled, and Harry leaned in to kiss it with his own.


	19. Chapter 18

**::50::**

Though the agreement that Draco and the Ministry had finally reached was a sign of development, there was still as much uncertainty as before. It was easy to get lost in the excitement of finally _getting _somewhere, but the blonde knew that there was still a real possibility of having to fight further for what he wanted.

The first reminder of this came in a somewhat roundabout way. Ginny had finally delivered her twins, and as a result both she and Neville understandably were unable to help with the centre any longer. Mrs. Weasley, too, had to cut back on her hours because the two new parents needed her help (or so she said—he suspected she partly simply wanted to be there).

Three people were gone in nearly a night. Draco's own commitment there was also going to be cut soon, which sent Hermione in a right panic.

"We simply can't do it, Harry," she was saying, looking like she'd had far too much coffee and too little sleep, "There's not enough people here. What are we going to do?" She had created a list of people that they could ask, but everyone had been crossed off.

"I suppose we could ask the Ministry to hurry with the search," Harry said, "but somehow I doubt that'll get us anywhere."

"I'll tell them I'm staying until they find a replacement for me, then," responded the blonde, who was stirring at his own coffee, "They can't expect me to drop everything and work for them."

"Yes, they can," muttered Ron dryly, "They're the Ministry."

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco found themselves having meetings over dinner much more frequently, and unlike Harry, the blonde considered it purely business. Admitting that he was actually making friends with them—well, more the Weasel than Granger—was something he apparently wasn't ready to approach.

Though both men were in agreement on the fact that their contract was worth the misery they would both soon feel, it didn't make their future partnership any easier. Ron found himself dreading it, and the only thing that kept him from bailing completely was the fact that it was for Harry and the centre.

"Do we know anyone else who potentially has a lot of friends in high places?" Harry sighed, running through the list of his former classmates in his head.

A long silence passed.

"Well, there is someone." Ron said, garnering the stares of the other three in the room in more than slight surprise. "Don't look so shocked," he grumbled, before continuing, "Harry, you're still in touch with Oliver, aren't you?"

Draco tensed at the name but said nothing.

The raven-haired wizard shrugged. "Not really, but I doubt he'd been offended if we sent him a letter." He watched the blonde in the corner of his eye, whose posture hadn't relaxed at the answer.

"Oliver's got teammates, and those teammates have _got _to have some unemployed wives," Ron said, "I mean, they're bloody rich. Not to mention a feel-good story like this would be great publicity for the team."

"Hermione can write the letter," Draco said, in a way that suggested he wasn't going to be easily convinced otherwise, "You and Potter can sign it."

Though the witch didn't seem bothered by the suggestion, Harry asked, "I wouldn't mind writing it."

"Granger can appeal to their emotions better than you can," responded the Slytherin airily.

Though it wasn't the most noble approach, Harry had to admit it was a good one. They really needed all the help they could get, and he supposed Draco knew what he was talking about.

"Okay, then," said Hermione, with a tone of finality, "I'll start on the letter tonight, Ron can find the address, and we'll bring it by tomorrow for you to sign, Harry." She paused, and then looked at Draco, as if about to ask if he wanted to do the same, and the pale man shook his head, indicating that he thought it a bad idea.

The witch accompanied the two men to the door, bidding them a warm farewell, telling them to travel safe.

"Ron?" Hermione said, returning to her seat at the table a few minutes after they'd gone.

"Hm?" her husband responded, sounding somewhat distracted.

"Did Harry and Oliver ever…" she trailed off. Ron's head had jerked up at the insinuation.

"Merlin, no! At least, I don't think so. Does Oliver even like men?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Of course he does, I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

Ron shook his head. "I doubt it, Hermione. Harry never talked about him—they were barely even friends."

She had to admit he was right—if there had been something brewing between the two men, they would have known. Harry had made it obvious that something was going on between him and Draco ages before he even admitted it.

_Still, _she thought, _why would Draco be jealous unless something did happen? _

Waving it away, Hermione decided the letter was much more important. Harry was more than capable of dealing with whatever was headed his way with Malfoy.

Hermione was usually right, and it was no different in the case of Draco's behavior regarding Oliver.

The grey-eyed man didn't admit his jealousy, but it became painfully apparent after they'd arrived home. He was sitting at the counter in that silent sort of sullenness that drove Harry crazy.

"Okay, what's the problem?" he finally asked, giving in, "You've been quiet for far too long." He saw that the pale man was about to respond and quickly added, "Don't you dare say it's nothing, I bloody well know that's not true."

He scowled at that, but didn't say anything for a few moments. "Have you been with anyone else?"

The green-eyed wizard moved to sit beside him, turning to face him by propping his face on his hand, "What, like a relationship? Aside from Ginny?"

"Aside from anyone _female,"_ Draco specified tersely.

He shrugged. "On both counts, there were a few attempts, but it didn't really go anywhere. Drinks once or twice, you know. Before I found them painfully dull and left it at that."

"Your love life always was strangely nonexistent for being someone so famous," drawled Malfoy, "Thank goodness I rescued you."

"So you're admitting yours wasn't?" said Harry, raising a brow.

"It mostly consisted of things arranged by my mother and father. It's the pureblood thing to do, you know—sort of like shopping for a broom. Otherwise, no, though I didn't have much choice."

After hearing that, Harry was glad that he ended up with Draco Malfoy. Whether or not the blonde thought his familial traditions were important, he still secretly believed that, in a way, the Slytherin had narrowly escaped something that could have made him miserable.

Wisely, however, he kept those thoughts to himself.

∷**51**

Though Harry's response to his nagging insecurities did ease some of Draco's worries, it did not mean that, under any circumstances, was he glad for the impending presence of Oliver and his team. It was something that was still very tentative, and if there was one thing the blonde found most irritating about his current situation, it was that everything was so bloody _uncertain. _It created a level of complexity in his life that he detested greatly.

Regardless of these misgivings, the letter was signed and sent in nearly no time at all. Hermione told them both to not expect a response right away, which she knew would drive both Harry and Draco up the wall further.

"Just go about your day normally," the witch suggested, as if it were easy to do so, "You should go see Ginny and Neville soon, too." Draco chose not to comment, but the latter of her advice was something he did not intend to follow through on.

Amongst waiting for the Ministry to do as they agreed to, and the response to the Gryffindors' plea for help, there was also one other thing on his mind that he could not rid of, no matter how hard he tried.

Connor.

Specifically, the fact that in a very short amount of time—perhaps in just a week—the man he had come to depend on and adore in the chaos of his current residence would be limiting his visits. It was painfully obvious to Draco that, in his absence, Connor was as reserved and shy as the first time they had met.

The day the letter was sent, Harry took his friend's advice and dragged Draco along with him to the centre—which the green-eyed man noticed and fully intended on asking about later. A cloud of gloom seemed to settle around the pale man, despite all the accomplishments that he had made in the last few days.

Though he tried to hide it, the distraction was noticeable. He hardly paid attention to the sound of one of the girls wailing about a stolen toy, leaving most of the work and conflict resolution upon the other adults in the room. When noon came around, and Hermione, with great irritation, had drawn him out of his brooding fog for the fifth time, the groups had been split and were ready to go outside.

The rest of the day followed in a similar fashion. Draco suspected many had given up on enlisting his help at all that day. It was only until Connor cornered him and asked, with furrowed brows creased with worry, just what it was that seemed to be bothering him.

It was the question he'd been trying to avoid.

Knowing it was futile to lie, Draco motioned for the other to follow, and they slipped away into the library, where the light bulb had never been fixed, leaving the room darker than it usually was.

"The centre is undergoing some changes, some really big ones. I've been the one assigned to help oversee and implement them, but it means I can't come here every day. I have to go somewhere else."

Instantly, the blonde wished he hadn't been so blunt, but beyond that the simplicity of his statement irritated him most; Connor was old enough to understand the gravity of the situation, had he chosen to impart more of the facts.

For some reason, however, he was wary to.

"So you won't be working here anymore?" asked Connor. It was the sort of question that required no answer, and the sort in which far more information lied behind the tone used rather than the actual words.

"For a short time. I'll be coming back. Harry'll still be here, and I can still visit, too." Draco tried to reassure him, but it seemed to have little effect—the boy lapsed into silence, his eyes conveniently hidden by his hair.

"That's what everyone says." The amount of bitterness behind the answer took the tall man by surprise. Even more startling, perhaps, was the dark stare that fixed upon his own—one of pure tension and clear fury. In retrospect, Draco supposed it was only wise that the boy employ such a distrustful nature, and he wondered if he would ever gain his full trust.

"What can I do, Connor?" he sighed, not out of exasperation but frustration with his own situation, "I'm no bloody good at this, at making people feel better, so you have to tell me."

It apparently was a frightening question to Connor, who had never been asked, at least since coming to the Centre, what he wanted before. The bitter stare, somewhat eased by Draco's obvious regret over the upcoming events, changed into one as wary as the man felt.

"I dunno," the boy answered finally, after a very long pause, "Nothing, I guess. I'm going back to the dining hall."

Draco tried very hard not to gape. He had never seen Connor act that way, and he had the sinking feeling that he'd committed the gravest mistake—one that possibly wouldn't be able to be remedied at all.

Such deflection, thought Draco, should have not been such an instinctual tactic for someone his age.

∷**52**

Connor avoided him for the rest of that day. When Draco tried to bid him farewell, he simply pretended he hadn't heard him, his nose buried in a book.

The dark fog that had been following him all day deepened, and the blonde man disappeared without waiting for Harry. Not out of anger, but out of distraction by the gloom that was ailing him. All that sounded particularly good right now, thought the Slytherin, was to be under the covers in the dark. Moping apparently was the most appealing option at this point.

Harry, after searching for Draco at the centre and finding no sign of him, went to Connor. When the question of his whereabouts went unanswered—"Dunno," mumbled the boy, not bothering to look at him—he found himself bewildered. This confusion was tinged with more than slight worry, so, without speaking to Harvey or anyone else before his departure, he left immediately.

He appeared at the door of their flat, his worry deepening as he entered and found his greeting unanswered. A cursory glance at the stark room before him showed little sign of disturbance, and the man would have thought Draco had never arrived at all, except for the fact that, for whatever reason, his instinct said otherwise.

In the doorway of the bedroom, Harry found himself feeling timid at the darkness and silent man before him. He opened his mouth to call out his name, but thought against it, and instead took off his shoes and trousers very quietly, not bothering to change into something more comfortable before slipping under the covers himself.

Draco had only willingly sought comfort once before, and it was something rare enough that Harry thought he might never see it again, but he did so this night.

Perhaps the only difference was that neither of them spoke. The dark-haired man, finding his worries soothed after finding the Slytherin, found that the contact between them enough. Draco, after some time of trailing his fingers against the hand entwined in his, paused to loosen the tie that Harry had ignored so that he would be more comfortable.

It was, strangely, this attention to that small detail that spoke of his affection the strongest.

They spent a few more hours like that, in the silence, until the blonde's melancholy, and his embrace, had lessened enough for the dark-haired man to whisper that he would make dinner. There was no response to that, but the kiss he received for it was enough to send him off.

Harry didn't know when he would want to speak about what was haunting him, but the savior, for once, took what he had learned from experience when it came to Draco Malfoy and decided to ignore his impatience on the matter.

He would listen when it was time to.


	20. Chapter 19

∷**53**

If there was one thing Draco had been counting on, it was that some time would bring an end to the silent treatment Connor seemed to be imposing. Numerous attempts by Hermione and Harry to mend the relationship had failed, and judging by the way he continued to avoid the Slytherin's stare and his downturned lips, time had failed as well—and was running out.

Harry's patience was growing thin, and despite his friend's advice to "just _talk _to him," it did not seem to be getting any better. Conversations with the man suddenly became something like talking to a wall.

To make matters worse, Oliver and his team _had, _indeed, responded quite quickly to Hermione's plea, and seemed more than willing to organize assistance in even faster time. It was good news, but the day Oliver said he intended to come (alone—his manager would be doing his job and 'managing it all', apparently) was the same day his sullen boyfriend would be undergoing his interrogation at the Ministry.

Draco declined with a sneer when Hermione offered it to him to read, but he found himself aware of it anyway—and of Oliver's impending presence.

"Malfoy," muttered Hermione, as she watched Harry announce the news that the letter carried, looking as impatient as Harry felt, "Will you at least pretend to be happy about this?"

Admidst the squealing and screaming—_"He's coming here? Tuesday?"_—Draco rose one brow and said, with all the bitterness he could muster, "Well, luckily, you won't have to deal with it for much longer, Granger."

"No, but Ron will," retorted Hermione, crossing her arms.

A similar sentiment was expressed by Harry later that night, as Draco made toast with blueberry jam for dinner in the second night in a row (the Gryffindor found that blueberry jam was Draco's comfort food). "This is a really good thing for the Centre, Draco,"

"I would be inclined to agree," answered the blonde quietly, "and even more so once the papers get wind of it. The Ministry might not even need to help find employees after all."

"It's not like I wanted it to happen this way, Malfoy!" snapped the dark-haired man heatedly, hearing the implication behind those words.

"You never do, Potter—but it always seems to happen that way, doesn't it?"

Draco was aware of the words he'd uttered, and inwardly he found himself scrambling for an apology. He hadn't entirely intended for his words to have such heavy implications with Harry's fame and motivation, but it sounded bad nonetheless.

Before any semblance of an apology was found by his momentary mental-verbal lapse, however, the light above them promptly shattered.

It was enough of a distraction to warrant a dry remark from the Slytherin, realizing that he still had a while to go before such occurrences ended, though they had been consistently decreasing—"Well, that lightbulb was going, anyway."

Harry responded by using his wand to clean up the mess. The man paused, glancing over at the plate on the counter, seeing that glass had ended up in the toast that had grown cold over the course of their argument.

"Sod it all," sighed the blonde, taking the chance to change the subject to something lighter, and knowing one of Harry's favorite meals would ease the tension, "I'm more in the mood for pizza."

"I've got to go help Hermione with something," answered Harry, the offense still shining in his eyes as he leaned over to kiss the pale man on the cheek, "Don't wait up." It wasn't entirely true, but the witch did say she had wanted to have them over for dinner again.

The mental-verbal lapse returned, but this time, Draco didn't bother trying to war with it. He'd nearly single-handedly fixed the dismal situation the Centre was in, and selfishly had wanted Potter and the others to admire _him _for once—but it wasn't getting him anywhere, and he knew it.

∷**54**

"With all the complaining you two have been doing about Malfoy, I'm about ready to quit altogether," muttered Ron grumpily, between forkfuls of chicken.

Harry's appearance at their doorstep wasn't a surprise, but the absence of Draco was. Hermione had to put the extra dishes away inconspicuously—and didn't entirely succeed, as the Gryffindor's green eyes caught her moving form from the table. If the two men didn't look so sullen, the witch reckoned she would have had an appreciation for having dinner with solely Harry. It would have been a reminder of their kinship at Hogwarts and a nice bit of reminiscing could have ensued. Instead, she found herself annoyed.

It was this annoyance, fueled by her usual drive for achievement, that led her to concede defeat. It was one thing to simply have a moody Malfoy around, but two moody men did not work well together, and it led Hermione to the conclusion that, for the safety of the progress the Centre was making, she would need to sort things out.

Sometimes she felt like the unofficial liaison for the fights Harry, Draco, and Ron all had within the group.

What Harry and Ron's reaction to her sudden departure was of no importance, as she was gone before they could say anything, though the telltale _crack _that filled the air likely informed them of all the needed.

Meanwhile, as an unsuspecting Slytherin finishing off the last of the blueberry jam, a loud knock on the door was startling. Thinking it to be Harry, he was surprised to see Granger there, and had the sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like what she had to say.

Hermione, on the other hand, decided that she needed to pick one of the three things that were most heavily weighing on all four former Hogwarts students—the current events regarding the Centre, Harry and Draco's refusal to communicate, and Connor's silent protest. Deciding that getting the two men back onto good terms again would lend itself to remedying the other three problems, she chose to focus on her friend.

Well, both of them—Hermione had found that she had, despite Draco's behavior as a spoilt prat, grown quite fond of him and even considered him a friend.

"Before you begin rambling," started Draco dryly, allowing her in, "please let me inform you that I am well aware of what I've done wrong, so please, feel free to save yourself the breath and spare me the headache."

"Spare _me _the misery, then, and start acting like the Draco Malfoy I befriended, not the Draco Malfoy I knew at Hogwarts!" Hemione stared at him crossly, with her arms crossed, exuding the familiar sternness of McGonagall.

While all the staff ideally had some sort of maternal instinct in place for Hogwarts students, Harry would tell him later after Draco made light of it, he wondered if McGonagall had, in some ways, replaced the witch's parents after she had made the hard decision to remove them from danger and, as a result, her life.

A slight tinge appeared on the pale man's cheek. He hadn't been expecting their friendship to ever formally be admitted, but now that it had, he felt strangely at peace with the thought. However, telling Hermione she was right was never a good idea, so he pretended to not have noticed her choice of words and responded, smoothly, "Then tell Potter to get his arse back here. You can't expect me to do anything if he keeps running to you two to hide, hm?"

"Why not go after him?" muttered Hermione, in a way that suggested it was the most obvious solution. It was the sort of question that was heavy-handed in terms of its meanings, and the Slytherin knew she meant for it to address the concerns of Connor as well.

"Not everything works out like your books, Granger," said Draco, "Nothing is as neat and tidy as we'd like. Now send your Golden Boy home."

If she saw past the evasion, she didn't say anything about it—and for what seemed to be the millionth time, the slender man found himself grateful for her observational skills.

"Harry," said Hermione, ignoring the questions directed at her when she arrived home, "You need to go home."

The scarred man did not take her forceful suggestion into consideration and instead just stared at her, quite owlishly, his mind deriving all sorts of scary things from her short disappearance—all of which suggested that the man he had been complaining about for the past hour would not be happy with him when he got back to their flat. Harry wasn't sure he had the energy for another fight, and whilst he appreciated his best friend's concern, he wasn't sure he appreciated her interference.

Ron's face scrunched into an expression of distaste and confusion. "'Mione, that's just cruel and unusual."

"And I really don't need you getting involved, Hermione. I appreciate it, but it's _my _relationship—"

"Oh, Harry, if I hadn't, you would have taken ages to go back to that flat and, as much as I love you, there's only so much I can take of you, too. Besides, Draco _asked _that you come home, I didn't say anything." She looked at her husband, her know-it-all expression flashing briefly on her face before she stifled it, "As for you, Ron, I'll have you know that you are very close to _working _with Malfoy, and I'm sure having him in the best spirits possible would make your job much easier, wouldn't it?"

There was not much to say to that—she was right.

The bushy-haired woman, continuing to ignore the obvious resistance from her counterparts, simply waved her wand and sent the dishes off into the kitchen. Another plate, covered, made its way to Harry's lap and hovered gently, as if waiting for him to take it.

"You can't hide forever, Harry. You and Draco aren't only partners romantically, you know. You're partners for the Centre now, too."

_Bloody well grow up and act your age, _would have sufficed, but both men supposed they wouldn't have taken the advice if she kept it too succinct. It was good advice, and even Harry had to concede to it. He beckoned his friends farewell, feeling somewhat humbled and somewhat dreading his arrival back to his flat.

"I'm assuming she gave you one of her famous no-nonsense lectures?" drawled the taller man, in response to his awkward shuffle past the doorway.

"She'd make loads being a relationship therapist," said Harry, tilting his head slightly in amusement.

The steel eyes regarded him seriously for a moment, as though the joke was too subtle. It passed, and a small smile arched Draco's lips. "Throw in some of her baked goods and I imagine she'd be richer than some of the oldest Pureblood families."

Harry stared at him dumbly for a moment, before remembering about the dish Hermione had sent him off with. For reasons the Slytherin would never be able to explain, there was something about the combination of the ruffled hair and owlish stare that he believed he would never grow tired of. Potter would never know.

With that thought, he deemed their argument over, and brownies a suitable replacement for supper, Draco whisked the plate away, kissing the man holding them momentarily. Taking two plates out of the cupboard and putting two desserts on each, he handed one to the olive-skinned wizard settling behind him.

"We should fight more often," said the silver-haired man after chewing his food thoughtfully, "Despite its negative implications on my waistline."

"Are you saying you don't like _my _brownies?" asked Harry with false offense.

Rolling his eyes, Draco took another bite before answering. "You can't even make eggs right."

"I told you I just forgot to add the butter."

"Three times? It's not a terribly difficult thing to remember."

The green-eyed man smirked, his eyes glittering as the light caught on his skin. "Maybe I just wanted you to make me breakfast."

Leaning with his stomach against the counter, parallel to which stool the savior chose, the taller wizard eyed every line on Potter's face, down to the curves of the shadows. He ignored the retort.

"Why does it seem like it's not the brownies you want to devour?" asked Harry teasingly, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"Excellent observational skills as always, Potter," responded the other man, who walked around the counter to take his hand, "I do think we should find the answer."

"There are easier ways to ask for more jam," murmured the darker-haired man with a grin, before allowing himself to be silenced with a kiss.

_As always, thank you to all that have stuck with me this far. I always say that, and it is probably especially cliché at this time of the year, but I am really, really grateful for you all._

_New update soon!_

_-B._


	21. Chapter 20

∷**55**

Connor generally liked Hermione Granger—though her attempts to make him interact with his peers could grow irritating, he knew she meant well and reckoned that if his mother were still alive, she would have done the same. Unlike his mother, though, Hermione tried to encourage his reading and thirst for knowledge—she brought books from her personal library for him to read. His quick fondness and devotion to Draco Malfoy was something she felt slightly hurt by—as she'd had to work hard to gain his trust. The woman didn't hold it against either of them, though, and was happy that the two had found a friendship of sorts.

Which was why the witch, ignoring his petulant gaze over the spine of the book he was reading, said, "I know it doesn't seem like it, but Draco misses you, and so do you. He's not leaving for good, Connor, and if he could have a choice, he wouldn't have to do this. But it's for the Centre, and for everyone else, that he has to."

The boy stayed silent, the only sign that he had heard her at all being the defiant expression that fluttered upon his face briefly before he shied away again.

Hermione stepped close, kneeling down, "He wasn't trying to hurt you."

Stubbornly, the boy refused to answer, and eventually, she was called away by one of the others. In the hall, out of earshot, the bushy-haired woman shook her head at Harry, frowning.

The wizard mirrored her disappointment. Draco was being just as frustrating, though his declination to speak to Connor was not out of spite—he operated on the ideal that leaving him be was best, lest he upset him further. The Slytherin was at a loss for words when it came to the whole situation, and it only seemed to worsen the closer his departure date arrived.

Despite the excitement of having a _real _Quidditch team come to see them, it hadn't escaped Connor's attention that it was the same day Draco wouldn't be at the centre, and that it would mark his absence for some time. It considerably dampened his anticipation.

The boy missed his friend, but the fact was, rage still swirled within him at every reminder of Draco Malfoy. It fueled their impasse, and fighting with it only resulted in doors that suddenly slammed shut or windows that cracked. For the time being, he thought as he pushed his hair away (it was much shorter than it used to be, but Harvey's skills for cutting hair were less than skilled) it was best to leave things as they were. 

∷**56**

Even with the protests of everyone else, Draco's disappointment was mostly due to Connor—or specifically, the lack of Connor. The boy had conveniently disappeared right around the time the wizard had to leave.

Harry, knowing this, tried to cheer him up. "When you come visit, he'll realize that you're going to stay around, Draco. You'll see."

The blonde was staring at the ceiling, frowning. Upon hearing his boyfriend's words, his expression changed to one of serious consideration, and Harry found himself pleased for the apparent effect he had on the man.

If he had intended to ask for his thoughts, however, it was too late—a distraction presented itself moments after he had uttered the words. Later, Harry would find them ironic.

A loud rap on the door caused the two men to exchange quizzical looks. It was awfully late for visitors. The slender man rose to his feet, shaking his head at the other, who moved to join him.

"Don't worry about it, it's probably just the Weasel handing off the cloak or something."

Harry didn't bother to correct him, as he'd already disappeared.

The feeling of curiosity that the sound had elicited quickly made way to confusion and fear. Draco was sure he gaped for a good five seconds before muttering much more harshly than he'd intended, "Just _what, _pray tell, do you happen to be doing here?"

Connor flinched slightly at the question, no doubt interpreting the words to be critical in nature rather than ones of concern.

The man took his arm, consciously being as gentle as possible in an attempt to convey that he wasn't angry, and called out, "Potter, get out here, I think you'll want to…" his silver eyes faltered with hesitation for a moment as he paused, "say hello to our guest."

Five minutes later, after fixing a cup of hot tea, Connor sat on one of the stools whilst Harry and Draco stood behind the counter, looking quite befuddled. It wasn't every day, after all, that a boy ran away to their flat. The blonde man found himself wondering what they would do.

The obvious answer was simply to send him back, but he found himself at odds with it.

"Connor," Harry began patiently, "You really could have gotten into some trouble running off like that. It's dangerous at this hour."

"We're not angry," Draco chimed in, finally managing to sort out his thoughts, "and I reckon with the limited staff, it wasn't hard to sneak away."

The boy stayed silent, staring down at his tea, privately wondering just what he _had _been thinking to begin with. Shame flooded within him, a blush rising to his cheeks as a result.

Harry shot the man beside him a look as he turned around the corner to leave, clearly suggesting the two should talk without him. It wasn't him that Connor had come to see, after all, and the need for privacy was obvious even to him.

After he had gone, the boy sighed, looking up hesitantly, as if he would find anger or disappointment within the steely gaze before him. Instead he saw concern.

"I didn't want you to not come back," he mumbled, looking back down at the tea again, "I didn't want you to think I didn't want you to 'cos I didn't tell you good-bye."

It seemed to be a response worthy of deep consideration, as Draco didn't say anything for what felt like a long while.

"Connor," he said finally, when the brown eyes met his own, "there is, quite frankly, no way you could stop me."

"Why?" asked the other, more out of curiosity rather than cynicism.

"Because I know a bit about being left alone, Connor," admitted the blonde quietly, shifting his gaze away, "and I wouldn't want to do that to anyone else, particularly you."

It was apparently a satisfactory answer, because the next question that he asked was, "Can I stay here for a while?"

The man looked up, clearly wanting to say yes. He forced a smile. "I'll make you a deal, okay? We'll all go back to the Centre after you've had a brownie. I'll tell Harry we're taking the car."

For what seemed like the first time in days, a smile crossed the boy's face.

Not even Harry could say no to that—and nor did they say no to a request for a second helping. Though all of them would likely be tired the next day, it didn't seem to matter. _It's only a night,_ thought Draco, _we all deserve a break from the chaos._

I didn't want to end this on a suspenseful note, and I figured some of you were wondering about the Draco-Connor conflict. I won't have internet until Saturday (I'll be away for the holiday) and won't be able to upload anything until next weekend. :(

As a note: weekly updates should resume, and will be more frequent during my next break (which is nearly a month). Though it may not seem like it, this story is drawing to a close, and should be completed at the end of December.

Best,

-B.


	22. Chapter 21

∷**57**

Ron showed up at their doorstep fairly early, which Harry didn't expect. The ginger-haired Auror seemed to be trying to hide his true feelings on the matter—having to partner with Draco Malfoy (or as he called it, "babysitting the bloody git"). He knew it was for Harry and the others he loved, but at seven in the morning, he wasn't fully awake to consider such things and thus found himself in a fairly sour mood.

He spied a flash of silver hair behind Harry's form, and barely heard his friend invite him in. Halfway through a piece of toast, which was what seemed to be the only thing the Slytherin would eat in the morning, the man didn't bother with pleasantries and simply gave him a curt nod, his sharp eyes fluttering briefly to the thick fabric hanging off of his arm.

Harry, on the other hand, found that anxiety was stirring within him. He was certain Draco could take care of himself, especially with Ron around, but it didn't seem to do much good at easing his fears—the memory of their close call from only a few weeks ago fresh in his mind. "What will you be doing today?" he asked, hoping that the first day would simply entail something very boring, like a meeting.

Draco's lips twisted into something bitter, his eyes flashing with the same amount of cynicism his drawl contained. "Potter, don't tell me you've forgotten about the Veritaserum? The Ministry's going to have some fun today, I reckon. Maybe even find out about your kinks, hm?"

Ron began blushing profusely, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of hearing such personal information.

The blonde rolled his eyes. "Don't you worry, Weasel, he's really quite vanilla—well, except for the—"

"_Draco." _Interrupted Harry, his cheeks about as red as Ron's hair.

Knowing his anxiety had been eased enough, the blonde took the Invisibility Cloak from the still-blushing Auror, shrugging it on until only his head remained. Seeming not to care about his likeness to Nearly-Headless Nick, the Slytherin leaned in and kissed Harry on the cheek.

This seemed to bother Ron further, but he said nothing, and perhaps wisely so—there was no need to start the first day off badly. That could wait until tomorrow. Ron took Malfoy's arm and they were gone in the blink of an eye.

After they'd left, Harry found himself struck by a sudden loneliness. He hadn't gone to the Centre alone for quite some time, and though at one point in time he knew he had believed he preferred it that way, it was something that tinged the day with a sadness he couldn't quite squash. The sky looked soft, almost tangible, as the sun peeked over the buildings in front of him, and even the roads seemed empty.

When he did arrive, however, he found himself greeted with a sight that distracted him from his stirring emotions. Oliver, apparently, had arrived somewhat early alone.

"Harry," said the dark-haired man with a broad smile, "It's good to see you." The way the man was looking at him made him feel uncomfortable, and the weak smile on his face was less than genuine.

Oliver didn't seem to notice, as he stepped closer and put one hand on his shoulder. "I've managed to wrangle the team away from the field and they'll be here soon—I know how much you want to get everything sorted out as soon as possible."

"Er, yes, but we're not actually moving today." The green-eyed man found himself bewildered at the broadened smile on Oliver's face at the answer.

"Well, I'm glad I could surprise you. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of enlisting some outside help, you see."

Harry wondered just how much outside help he had requested, as the Malfoy Manor hadn't been even close to ready a night before. He spied Hermione coming toward him, looking more than uncertain.

"He wanted to surprise you," said the witch, her eyes reflecting just how little she had been informed of the matter, "They hired some Wizards to do a full sweep of the Manor last week,"

Oliver checked his watch. "The sleeping quarters were the first thing we wanted to finish, so that's been sorted, and some of the wives have been sorting out the kitchen—"

"We can't move today," said Harry, not bothering to hide the flatness in his voice, "We need to be sure it's completely safe—"

Oblivious to the wizard's trepidation on the matter, the dark-haired man simply seemed to smile more, "It's safe, Harry. I popped in at the Ministry and told them what I wanted to do, you see, and they were more than accommodating—the best Aurors scoured this place. I triple-checked, even, since it's the _Malfoy _Manor," he paused, as if hesitating to share his opinion, and apparently felt it appropriate to do so, as he continued, "I tried to get another place first, you see, but the Ministry informed me of its contract."

It was clear that the Ministry had been swayed by his fame, and likely a sizable donation, because such an obvious breach of privacy could have only occurred by a bribe. Harry decided he did not like Oliver Wood very much. "Thanks for the help, but the Manor's going to be a wonderful place. Draco's made sure of that, too."

Hermione shot him a warning look—_Be nice. _

The other man seemed not to be convinced. His smile noticeably faltered, but despite this, the Quidditch player continued, "How about I take you down there, show you the place? Then you can decide if you want to wait or not."

Harry looked at Hermione, who seemed just as uncomfortable as he was, but intent on making the best of it.

Forcing a smile on his face, the wizard supposed he might as well, too.

∷**58∷**

Arriving with an Auror instead of Harry was an interesting experience—people seemed to take it as permission to stare at him even more critically than usual, and the blonde, though managing to seem fairly nonchalant, was relieved when Ron took him to an empty interrogation room. He hadn't said much, and that didn't bother the Slytherin in the least, as sudden anxiety hit him upon seeing the vial in front of him.

After a moment, the ginger-haired man said, "It's not poison."

Draco simply sneered in response and pressed the vial to his lips, swallowing it quickly. He motioned for the Auror to sit down. "Let's get this over with, Weasel—it's not exactly my idea of a good time."

The confused look on the man's face did not make him feel any better, and it hit him that Ron wouldn't be interrogating him. He might not have liked the man, but he knew he would stick to the pertinent details.

Before anything else could be said, they were startled by the sound of a door opening. A man, holding a stack of files, came in, looking quite winded. Draco didn't recognize him, but he wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

"I'm Auror Timmins," he said, not offering a greeting, and after setting the stack of files on the table as he sat down, continued, "Let's get started, shall we?"

A look of obvious distaste was in his eyes, and Ron found himself feeling sympathy for the silver-eyed man. The Auror stared at him pointedly, and with great hesitation—catching the brief moment of panic that flew across Draco's face as he turned to watch him leave—shut the door behind him.

_This is not good, _thought the wizard, _and complete and utter bollocks. _Kicking himself for not realizing that _of course _the Ministry would fuck him over in any way possible, especially with an interrogation, he seriously considered fleeing.

"For the record, what is your full name?"

His answer was automatic. "Draco Lucius Malfoy."

"When was the last time you had any contact with a known Death Eater?"

The question conjured up the memory of Pansy in his mind. His near-fatal meeting with her had been just over eight months or so, but it felt like yesterday.

For the most part, the questions continued in a similar manner—and Draco found himself lulled into a false security over the fact that the Auror hadn't asked him anything regarding the war or Harry.

As soon as he thought that, of course, the questions took a sharp turn. The Auror paused his questioning for a few moments, taking the time to look through one of the files in front of him. He took two pictures out, turning them around to face the Slytherin.

They were pictures of a girl, a stranger to him. She was smiling and no more than eighteen, but probably younger. It didn't move, so he knew it wasn't an enchanted photograph. He knew nothing about her but instantly recognized her—the young girl Voldemort had burned alive. He remembered how the room smelled afterwards.

"During the war, did you participate in the murder of Jane Neimann, a muggle?"

He was thankful that room was one in the far end of the Manor—he would have to make sure it was boarded up. He didn't doubt that the place would be stripped of its history, of its magical residue, but that room—that room he didn't want anyone using.

"No." he answered finally, and knew it wasn't the answer the Auror wanted.

"Did you participate in the murders of any other muggles, or half-muggles, at any point in time?"

Draco didn't doubt that the Ministry didn't have a complete list of Voldemort's playthings—some of them were homeless, or tourists, their disappearances easily explainable. Lucius, as far as he knew, had never aided in the abduction of any of them, but he had helped kill one of them.

It was a side of his father he had never wanted to witness, and a reminder of just how far self-preservation could push someone. Knowing now that he likely did it for his own sake—so Draco _wouldn't _have to participate—it left something bitter in his mouth.

"No." It was to the point now where his tone was dulled, though his eyes showed more emotion than he cared to admit to.

"Are you familiar with a Neville Longbottom?"

The question threw him for a bit of a loop. Scrunching his eyebrows in confusion, he confirmed that he did.

"Did he, at any time, ask to participate or participate at all, with the Death Eaters alliance?"

_What's Longbottom got to do with anything?_ wondered the wizard, and said, "No, of course not. Longbottom wouldn't have lasted half a second."

"Did you offer any incentive or bribery to him in exchange for his assistance in your escape from the Malfoy Manor?"

Draco felt himself go numb for a moment. He'd always wondered who got him out that night, but never expected to know. Nor did he expect it to be Longbottom—perhaps the one other individual at Hogwarts he tormented more than Harry.

"No, I didn't," he answered quietly.

Timmins paused again, as if the interrogation was almost over. _Perhaps he's run out of questions to torture me with, _mused the blonde bitterly.

"You live with Harry Potter, is that correct?"

_Never mind, _he thought.

He answered, "Yes," and panic flared in his abdomen again.

"Have you attempted any harm on him, in the form of Dark Magic or physically?"

Draco felt his face twist into a sneer. "Of course not."

"Do you intend to harm him, or anyone close to him?"

Now it was getting a bit ridiculous—he'd just _said _he wasn't chumming it out with any Death Eaters, but it was as though the Auror suspected he was lying anyway.

"No," he snapped, irritation rising to his cheeks. If everyone knew about their relationship, would everyone suspect him to be the abusive boyfriend? All because when he did when he was a stupid, spoilt, easily manipulated teenager in the middle of a war? It wasn't so long ago, and sometimes Draco forgot how young he and Harry actually were—they felt so much older.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Potter?"

It was the question he'd been hoping he could avoid, but he supposed it was foolish of him to think that he could.

"He's my boyfriend."

The Auror raised his eyebrows, a red blush akin to Ron's rising up his neck. He was quiet for a moment, as though waiting to recover from the news.

"For further clarification—you mean to tell me that you and Harry Potter, one of the most famous people in this country, are in a homosexual relationship?" There was more than a little disbelief in his tone.

Draco tried not to answer. The truth came out strangled, choked of life, and much quieter than his previous one. "Yes, that's correct."

"Is there a reason you're keeping it quiet?"

He sneered again. "It's not like everyone _needs _to know who I happen to share my bed with, but I can't imagine the press would reflect very well on Harry _or _you if it got out."

"Do you intend to sell him out to the highest bidder? Merlin knows you've no money, this could be a way to get some of those fancy things of yours back."

The bitterness in his throat rose again. "No. I would never do that."

Whether the Auror or not believed him didn't matter anymore—he needed to get out because the chair beneath him was shaking and it would likely erupt into pieces if he didn't. he rose up to his feet, ignoring the look of surprise on his interrogator's face.

"I think you have all the relevant information," snapped Draco, swinging the door open with a loud bang. His arms were shaking and a pen next to the Weasel—who had been waiting outside—snapped in half, covering his robes in ink. The man, whose pale skin was tinted with rage, said nothing about this, and all but flew down the corridor, clearly not intending to stay around much longer.

Going home was the obvious choice, but Draco didn't want Weaseley sniffing around for him, and Merlin knew he'd go crying to Granger or Harry by tonight, so he found himself deciding on the Manor. It wasn't due for renovations for some time, and he reckoned the Centre had its hands full trying to organize the influx of volunteers assigned to them.

He quickly found that this assumption was wrong.

∷**59∷**

Harry found himself surprised with the transformation of the Malfoy Manor—it had been stripped of nearly any indication that it _was _Draco's manor. Being a family of Slytherins, the décor had largely consisted of the color green and its mascot, a snake. The doorknobs, for example, used to have snakes that hissed at you when the door was locked.

The plant that attacked Ron did not greet them when he and Oliver had arrived, and he suspected it had been killed. For some strange reason, he found a bitterness toward that.

The general layout of the Manor wasn't something that could be changed too much, to his relief, so tinges of Draco were still there, even if Harry had to fill in missing pieces. The portraits were removed, the carpets changed from green to red, and the walls had been painted a neutral yellow.

Other parts of the house had less implications of a Gryffindor's bias—the kitchen had been renovated to include modified appliances that fit the House Elves better, and additional storage.

There were other changes, but Harry found himself struck by the fact that if Oliver had been able to use magic to make so many changes, it was obvious that a safe house didn't exist on the property, despite its connection to the one he and Draco had been in. In fact, it seemed that the Ministry had done everything in its power to purge the property of any Dark Magic. It was a good thing, but he still felt the burn of irritation at Oliver for simply taking over. He also found himself angered by the fact that the Ministry apparently not finding it something he should have been informed about—but he suspected the Quidditch player had a hand in that.

Whether Oliver's intentions were truly genuine or not was beside the point—it was still manipulation.

Having left him alone in the drawing room for a moment, the man appeared beside him, his hand on his lower back. Harry drew away, his reception growing chillier every passing moment, though the other still seemed painfully oblivious.

"Shall I show you where the students will sleep?"

Being alone in a room with beds, with a man that seemed to be content continuously groping him was not something he cared to do.

"Why don't we go back to the Centre and see how they're doing before we do any more tours? I reckon Hermione should see some of this too. Maybe I can bring Draco tonight, if he gets home early enough."

"Draco?" echoed Oliver, seeming taken aback, "I know it's the Malfoy Manor, but I was unaware he was having any part in…wait, home?"

It seemed that Oliver was not as oblivious as he seemed, because realization settled on his face fairly quickly. He recalled the visit he took to see Harry some time ago, and remembered that the two rivals had met again over Albus. He'd left partly out of jealousy, but he didn't think anything would actually _happen—_it was Draco Malfoy, for Merlin's sake.

Harry stayed silent.

"How long?" asked Oliver, still in disbelief.

The other wizard, staring at him defensively, muttered, "A while."

"And you actually _trust _him? I mean, if he told the papers—"

Harry snapped, "He wouldn't do that. Frankly, I think I know him better than you do, and if anyone the ability to assess his character, it would be me."

The dark-haired man frowned, ignoring the smoldering green stare on his face. "I see."

"Let's get back to the Centre, okay?"

∷**60∷**

Draco knew, logically, that he couldn't expect the Manor to stay as he remembered it, and in fact encouraged it, but as he went through every room silently, looking to see if certain things were still there—and found more missing than he expected.

One of the places that had changed the most was his father's office—it was a bare room now, all of the custom bookshelves and tables removed. The window in front of him, letting sunlight shine through, made it seem even more empty. The walls, originally painted a dark grey, were white. The molding in the upper corners bore the family crest, and that, too, had been removed.

He found himself walking down the long corridor, past the walls that had been stripped bare, and pausing for a moment at a door he didn't think he'd find himself at again. It creaked loudly in protest as he stepped inside, and the room that he'd grown up in, the room that later became a place of torture and death, was unfamiliar.

Like his father's office, the walls had been changed and décor removed. The floor was stained with blood when he left, but this one was unblemished.

If he were anyone else, he wouldn't have suspected its history.

The last place he visited was the library. The fireplace was still there, the built-in bookshelves remaining alongside with it. Draco remembered the time he spent there, poring over schoolbooks and extra potions assignments. It had been his refuge at one point in time. The books his father had collected were mostly about the Dark Arts, the history and the development of the Wizarding World, usually written with a bias favoring his pureblood view. Some of them were children's books, ones passed down through the family, and Draco's mother was fond of reading them to him when he was young.

Those books were all gone, the shelves bare and empty.

The blonde found himself wondering just how long renovations had been going on, and if Harry had known. If he had, why would he have kept it from him?

Had he, Granger, and the Weasel gone on without him? He had been upset when Draco made the contract arrangements without him, but to be so underhanded and do this…

The blonde sneered at the thought. Perhaps he hadn't known Harry as well as he thought.

ooooooooooooooooooo

_You know what I'd _really _like for Christmas? A computer that doesn't break, and internet that actually works. _

_The good news is that I'll be finishing this story this week, I just don't know when I'll be able to upload all the chapters, because apparently internet that works, despite the fact that I actually pay my rent on time, is optional for my landlords._

_/endrant_

_On a much nicer note, I hope everyone has a lovely Christmas/holiday!_

_-__**B.**_


	23. Chapter 22

∷**61∷**

Seeing as how his employment as an Auror was dependent on actually having Draco Malfoy present, Ron found himself in the familiar situation of having to track down the silver-haired git. He'd tried Harry's flat with no success, and with great shame, pushed through the doors of the centre in hopes that either he was there, or Hermione or Harry would know. Secretly, he hoped he _would _find Malfoy there, so he could hex the bastard.

The sight before him, however, momentarily distracted him from the irritation that was slowly simmering into a rage. The entrance was in disarray, with empty boxes lined up the pathways. As he walked past one of the rooms that used to be used for tutoring and classes, he saw that the chairs were stacked and piled in one corner, with boxes littering the spaces available.

Connor and the other kids didn't seem to be around, and that alone was a strange sight to behold. He was used to seeing and hearing them every time he came in—it was one of things he'd loved about the centre, as it reminded him of his own house growing up.

In the dining hall, he spied a very familiar individual. Hermione and Harry both seemed as irritated as he felt with Draco Malfoy, but had the feeling that it wasn't the Slytherin that was causing theirs. Oliver Wood had actually changed very little in terms of appearance, but what was most striking was the arrogance that seemed to ripple off of him. Ronald Weasley did not consider himself a very observant individual, and he reckoned that if even he could see that, it was likely painfully obvious to Hermione, who seemed to pick up on those sorts of things better than he ever did.

Seeing Oliver, though, reminded him of the one place he hadn't thought to look—the Manor. Making a mental note to speak to Harry later about what had exactly taken place as far as Oliver was a concerned, he turned around and left immediately, feeling relieved to escape the disconcertion of the centre and guilty for that relief.

The Manor was just as strange to enter, though at first the Auror wasn't sure that it wasn't partly influenced by the fact that it was simply the Malfoy Manor. Looking around, he saw that it had changed since he'd last seen it—everything that _made _it representative of the Malfoys was gone. It used to have a color scheme strongly suggestive of the Slytherin house, and now not a speck of green was to be found.

Ron found the man at the end of one of the corridors, peering into an empty room with a stare that unsettled him. He wasn't accustomed to seeing Malfoy as anything other than arrogant, as someone who cared too much about appearances. What he saw there was someone who looked irrevocably human, someone who actually did feel pain and possessed the ability to _care_.

The moment passed, though, as soon as the blonde noticed him. His grey eyes flickered with slight defensiveness, as though he knew Ron had witnessed something far too personal.

"What do you want, Weasel?" snapped Draco, stepping away quickly from the room and closing the door.

"I don't know," answered the ginger-haired man dryly, seeming to have forgotten about the side of Malfoy he'd just seen, "You, I would imagine. You can't just run when you feel like it, the Ministry has no obligation to uphold their side if you don't."

"Like you didn't know!" came the answer, the taller man's face twisted into a snarl, "How long have you and the rest been planning this? It's always been the Gryffindor Trio, hasn't it? It always will be. And I bloody well imagine you couldn't _wait _to—"

Ron felt his blood pressure rise, the indignation tipping his rage to dangerous levels. He found himself putting one hand on the wand at his side. "We didn't know! None of us did! Not Hermione, not Harry, and certainly not me!"

Draco's murderous stare did not waver, but a suspicious curiosity seemed to be elicited by his response. "What do you know?"

"Well, I was looking for _you," _began Ron, shooting him a dirty look, "when I went to the centre. I don't know what's happened, but Oliver is there and there's boxes and I reckon it's got something to do with him. Hermione didn't look very happy, and Harry probably wants to kill him."

"You didn't think to _ask?" _said Draco, rolling his eyes.

"Maybe I could have, had I not had to deal with finding _you,"_ snapped Ron irritably, "but the point is, we didn't bloody know and I'm getting sick of your paranoid Gryffindor versus Slytherin crap. We aren't in Hogwarts anymore."

The blonde privately admitted to himself that the Auror had a point, but would never, in a million years, admit that Ronald Weasley was right.

"Have you gotten yelled at yet, or should I wait here a bit longer before going back to ensure that happens?" asked Draco, smirking. He wasn't sure that he would ever be able to tolerate the man's presence for very long, but he could at least admit that he seemed…fairly passable as an Auror and had no doubt that he was regarded with _some _respect at his workplace.

Ron, to Draco's surprise, smirked in response. "Seeing as you left in quite the hurry, I had to explain it, so I just told them you're having a crying session in the loo and that it happens quite frequently—"

The Slytherin snarled, a pout evident in his eyes as he did so, "I really fucking hate you, Weasel, you know that?"

"Likewise, Malfoy," remarked Ron in a rare moment of coolness.

Perhaps he was spending a little too much time with him.

∷**62∷**

"Let's welcome our visitors politely, okay?" Hermione's suggestion had been ignored quickly, and it was obvious that anyone that wasn't a Quidditch player was not going to keep anyone's attention for long today.

"Let's see what Harry has to say first before we start showing the broomsticks," Oliver said pointedly, smiling in what was supposed to be a charming way but to Harry just seemed beguiling.

"We won't be staying in this building for much longer—we've found a new place to live. Don't worry about space, we'll have plenty of room and it's perfectly safe, if not safer—"

"We'll be helping you move too, maybe we can even use the broomsticks to get there, yeah?" piped up someone behind Oliver. The room erupted into loud chatter, and all order was lost. The room was further filled as the men in their team uniforms spread out, children running to them like ants. At this point all of his teammates seemed to be identical, and the wizard didn't bother to see who happened to be who—not punching one of them in the face was a much more important task to accomplish.

Harry was trying to keep in mind the fact that had it not been for Oliver, the Manor's renovations could have taken much longer. He was trying to believe that a dramatic unveiling on the very day that he had even heard about the surprise was a good idea.

Someone had brought in some banners charmed to alternate colors, but thankfully Hermione had been quick enough to remove them before anyone got hurt. They may have been harmless, she said, but no one was ever sure what would cause a problem and what wouldn't. Having someone direct a move of this caliber with that lack of knowledge and experience with the centre that scared him the most, as any mishap could have occurred. As he watched the kids huddle around the broom one of the players had brought with him, though, the green-eyed man realized he thought none of it was a good idea.

In fact, he felt downright insulted for being left out of the project he had put so much effort into, and even more outraged at the way Draco had been swept under the carpet. Admittedly the latter was bothering him more the former—his loyalty to Draco was much stronger than Oliver had realized.

But at the same time, he felt that he had no choice but to let Oliver lead—he didn't want to upset the kids or let them down, and having them excited for something that should have been stressful was something he preferred.

"What are we going to do?" asked Hermione in a hushed whisper, looking as though the current chaos of the centre pained her.

"We don't have much choice, do we? We'll have to follow his lead. At least he's gotten it through his thick skull that we needed to wait, but knowing our luck we'll wake up tomorrow and everyone will have left this place by then."

The witch beside him stayed silent for a moment. "Do you think it had something to do with the Ministry? Maybe they've found something and they're pushing us to do this?"

Harry shook his head. "I think the Ministry's got it's priorities all screwed up, and I think Oliver did a bit more than just say a few sweet words to do this, but I don't think they would have pushed for us to move this fast."

The truth was, Hermione had a point—the sooner that the centre was moved, the sooner the political pressure of shutting it down and its funding, if necessary, would end. The Ministry had been dealing with complaints from Muggles and wizards alike due to the strange reactions their community centre had caused, and it wouldn't have surprised Harry in the least if they'd managed to find a loophole within Draco's conditions.

"We've got new bedrooms for you, and we're even working on a field—we'll donate some brooms so you can all start some flying lessons," came the sound of one player's voice.

Whether or not they had Harry and the other caretakers' permission was not considered, and the wizard had the sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like what else they were being promised.

In the kitchens, Harry did not encounter the familiarity he had wanted. The house elves and their usual cheer didn't greet him. Briefly, he wondered how anyone was going to be feeding a group of overly excited children without the help, but someone appeared to have read his mind.

"I heard him say he's just going to order takeaway for everyone," muttered Harvey, who appeared to have his own opinion on how the change was being handled, "Personal pizzas."

"Brilliant," answered Harry, thinking of the amount of orders they'd have to call in and knowing it was either going to be him or Hermione making the call.

The day had surpassed his expectations—Harry found that he had spend most of it feeling disjointed. He had decided it wasn't going to get better when, instead of having the takeaway delivered like a normal person, the pizza was delivered via broomstick—with Oliver leading, of course.

It all reminded him of the ridiculous showmanship he'd experienced at the Wizarding Cup, and it made him just as irritated now as it had then.

It was just as he was about to leave, at quarter to nine, when he found out what, exactly, had been going around the Centre. It was much worse than he had expected.

"_We're going to be able to learn _magic!"

"_Do you reckon they'll let us get wands?"_

"_I bet Oliver could buy us all three if we wanted."_

Hermione seemed fed up. If Oliver had been intending on going back to the Manor that day with her, he had apparently forgotten, as he was engrossed in a discussion with an older man she didn't recognize. The whole day had been composed of strangers that didn't bother to greet her, so she paid him no mind, looking at Harry with a huffy expression. "This is absolutely ridiculous, Harry. He's intentionally exaggerating everything!"

"I _know," _muttered Harry, just as irritably, though it was more at Hermione for pointing out the painfully obvious. He felt as though she wanted him to do something, but there was little he _could _do without risking everything they'd worked for.

"What are you going to tell Draco?"

Harry shut his eyes, the question sending a brief shock of panic through his body. _Draco. _He'd gotten so swept up in everything that had happened that day, he'd completely forgotten about the Slytherin.

"I don't know. The truth, I would suppose." _Most of it, anyway, _he added silently to himself, deciding to keep Oliver's advances quiet.

∷**62∷**

Draco's return to the Ministry was an awkward one—Scrimgeour had apparently caught wind of his abrupt departure and was intending to speak to the Slytherin the first chance he got. The first chance, unfortunately, happened to be in the lift.

"Mr. Malfoy," he began tersely, a steely look in his eyes as he looked over at Ron, who had promptly gone silent, "Auror Weasley. I heard a very interesting rumor today. Apparently Mr. Malfoy left the premises alone. Do you care to explain?"

"I agreed to a background check," said Malfoy evenly, meeting the man's gaze with an equally defiant one, "Not an interrogation on my personal life."

"Harry Potter is a person of interest in this investigation, Mr. Malfoy, because of his status and because of his ties to the community. We must be certain to preserve his safety and of those around him."

Ron's eyebrows lifted, as though the heavy implications surprised him, but he said nothing. He shifted a glance at the pale man beside him. The lift had arrived at their floor—neither man made a move to leave. The Auror wouldn't have been surprised if they hadn't noticed.

"I think I can also adequately preserve that safety," answered the blonde finally, "but he can handle himself. My agreement with you has nothing to do with Harry aside from the fact that he happens to be employed by the Centre, and I would expect that any conduct the Ministry happens to have with him would be solely professional, as they would treat any employee there, regardless of status or magical ability."

The blonde remembered Harvey was a squib, and didn't doubt he faced similar discrimination. Scrimgeour's face coloured, as though a good response to that was unlikely.

He decided to address Ron instead, who had been observing the entire exchange with great trepidation. "Auror Weasley," he barked, "Make sure you do accompany Mr. Malfoy on any more…_excursions, _under the conditions we agreed. The Parkinson case file is on your desk—I would highly suggest you help prepare him for his part in it."

The man left without farewell, and upon his leaving, Ron let out a sigh. "I reckon that means you passed. Come on, I'll take you to my office, we can look at the files there."

"What about the safehouses?"

Ron paused. "We can't do much about them yet. The only confirmed location happens to be the one we can't touch until it's been cleared."

"How convenient," muttered Draco.

"We're working as fast as we can, Malfoy, but you can't expect us to finish this in a day." Ron was annoyed now—apparently the blonde didn't realize that there were other people in the building who couldn't help how slow the Ministry could be about things that had less political power.

Draco silently thought to himself that the Ministry simply didn't realize how useless the Death Eaters they'd kept for information actually were—their hunt, motivated by revenge, had largely eradicated those that knew the most. He thought of Pansy again, and realized he would likely encounter her sooner than he wanted. It stirred a sick feeling in his stomach, but he pushed it away. Waving his hand lazily, he told Ron to lead the way—the sooner the day was over, the better.

Though Ron had expected for he and Malfoy to work later into the evening, they found that there was a limited amount to do. The slow pace Scrimgeour seemed fond of also seemed to translate into how much they would accomplish.

As Draco was getting up to leave, eyeing the invisibility cloak in the corner, the Auror said, "They might ask about Harry."

The silver-haired man rose a brow. "Aside from our living situation at the time, I don't see how anything else could be relevant."

Ron's gaze shifted to the floor, which the Slytherin found odd. "What is it that you know? You may as well tell me, I'll find out anyway, from Granger or Harry."

The ginger-haired man shook his head. "They don't know about this. I didn't, until a few days ago. The man that was in charge of your interrogation...well, he's the one that's going to be leading the questioning at the trial."

It was rare that he kept anything from Hermione, but in this case, he thought Draco needed to know first.

Regardless, nothing else needed to be said—it was obvious to Draco what that implied. He stiffened slightly, his jaw tightening. "I imagine there's going be a reporter or two around, as well?"

"For informal purposes," responded Ron with bitterness.

"Brilliant," said the other man quietly, "and I suppose you want me to tell Harry."

"At least Harry won't go off on a rant about how unethical it is and whether or not there's case precedent that'll protect us," offered the Auror lightly.

"At least she can bake."

If either man noticed that their banter had become more comfortable and less about showmanship, they made no indication of it.


	24. Chapter 23

∷**63∷ **

Draco was slightly relieved to see that Harry wasn't home when he arrived. He needed some time to think about how, exactly, to phrase what Ron had told him. Knowing that the wizard had likely had a day similar to his, the blonde briefly considered waiting to tell him at all—but knew even he wouldn't be able to hide it well.

The wait for his arrival, however, turned from a relief to agonizing after some time had passed. His mind began exploring quite a few possibilities, from the most likely (the Centre was keeping him busy) to the least likely (he was dead in a ditch somewhere) and after the third gruesome death, he found himself needing to do something. It resulted in something the blonde loathed to do—clean. Growing up, cleaning was never a responsibility he had to worry about, and never expected to. Draco's humbling crash into reality had turned him into a domestic housewife, and at the moment, he didn't care.

It was, predictably, the first thing Harry noticed as he walked through the doorway.

"Draco?" he began hesitantly, as though it could possibly be anyone else with that familiar head of silver hair, "What exactly are you doing?"

The man looked up at him irritably, cheeks tinged from exertion, his hand pausing in the scrubbing motion it had tired of some time before, "What does it look like? I'm cleaning the bloody floor—do you _know _how much dust ends up on top of the fridge? It's utterly disgusting, and don't get me started on the bathroom—"

"But you never clean."

Draco rose to his feet, apparently deciding the flat was clean enough as it was. He chose not to mention that the laundry had yet to be done. "We don't have a telly anymore, I needed something to do. Anyway, it's nine-thirty and I'm starved, can we _please _order some takeaway?"

Harry blinked at him, his glasses giving him that owlish look the blonde secretly was slightly fond of, and said, "Only if you sit down. You know, we haven't been back to Mungo's yet, I reckon we probably should before you start-"

"No," interrupted the other man flatly, perching on the stool with a look that suggested, if Harry went any further with his comment, an argument would occur.

The wizard rolled his eyes, but smiled lightly, "Thank you for cleaning. It looks nice."

This seemed to alight suspicion in the Slytherin, as he crossed his arms around his chest and said, "You never say thank you after I do the laundry, and you know how dull it is to go and wait with it."

Harry didn't respond, busying himself by looking at the stack of brochures they had accumulated over the last few weeks. They wasted quite a bit on takeaway, he thought to himself, maybe it _was _time to learn how to cook, or Draco needed to be less picky.

He had the foresight to wait to press further on his questioning after they'd ordered, but Harry had been hoping he would let it go entirely—it had been a long day.

"What happened today, Potter?" asked the man finally, setting his chin on his hand at the counter, "Come on, out with it."

"Well, the Manor's changed quite a bit." It was a hesitant response, one Harry fully expected to result in a bombardment of impatience.

"I know about the Manor. I've seen it."

It was Draco's turn to be questioned. "What? How?"

"Weasley and I took a slight detour today. The place reeks of Gryffindor pride, by the way—who on Earth approved the décor?"

Harry visibly deflated, as though the question reminded him of something that he'd been avoiding thinking about. "Oliver. Apparently it was a _surprise._" The word was drawn out with bitterness, something that surprised the other man, but also gave him the inkling that more had occurred between the two of them than the wizard was admitting.

"A surprise? And just, how, exactly, was he able to make this _surprise _happen?"

Somehow, the question was all Harry needed to hear—the support reflected in it was a relief to find, and the words came tumbling out. "The Ministry. It was all squared away nice and neat with _them. _Oliver's got them wrapped around his little bloody finger—he wanted to _move _today. And he's telling the kids all this rot—like there's going to be a bloody _Quidditch _field and new brooms and new lessons, but for Merlin's sake, he doesn't know these kids at all, or if they'll even be able to do magic there, or if we can even move, I mean anything could happen, and he's just getting their hopes up—"

"Potter," Malfoy interrupted, "take a breath. I don't need you passing out on me."

"Right," Harry said, moving to sit beside him.

"So Wood's running the show now? With the Ministry's support, no doubt. You're Harry Potter—shouldn't that be enough to get him to back down?"

Harry's green eyes lit up with defensiveness. "Not everything can be fixed just because I'm famous, Malfoy. Do you really want to risk losing the support we do have right now just because _I _can't be the boss? Do you know how awful it would feel, to see Connor and everyone else just…have their hopes crushed like that, because of _me? _I can't do that, Draco. I just can't."

"I can always suggest a few things to him," said Draco with a bitter smile, "like where he can shove it."

"No," Harry said quickly, "You will not."

"You can't let him push you around, Potter. You've built this place."

"Can we just drop it?" muttered the wizard, irritation rising in him again. This time it wasn't because Draco had said something wrong—it was because he knew he was right, and it wasn't something he liked admitting.

The blonde paused, as if deciding whether or not pushing it was worth it. He remembered that he had his own miserable news to share, and in a rare moment of foresight, chose to not argue for the sake of being able to share the bed that night.

"The Ministry knows about you." Harry looked at him, slightly bewildered, having interpreted the statement literally. It was an abrupt subject change, but Draco rolled his eyes anyway. "As in, the fact that we shag on a regular basis."

The green-eyed man took in a breath of air sharply. If he had been trying to hide his thoughts on the matter, he wasn't doing a very good job—Draco saw the panic lurking there. It was irrational, but he felt a tinge of offense at it.

"Do you think they'll go to the papers?"

The blonde man shrugged. "Not right away." He evaluated Harry's expression, and regretted that he hadn't been more straightforward with his answer—he found relief. "But they will after I've finished with Pansy's trial. The nice bloke who chatted with me today, he's the same bloke that's going to be asking me questions there. Chances are, he's going to do his damndest to imply it."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Draco interrupted him, "There are going to be reporters there. There's no way around that bit."

"They can't back down from helping us. They've already signed the contract, and there's nothing in it that says I'm not supposed to have contact with you—"

The blonde shook his head, his lips curving into a rueful smile. "Chances are, they could say my not being upfront about the matter was enough to void it, as they weren't fully informed of the potential _conflict of interest _or some bollocks like that."

As he watched Harry bury his face in his hands, muffling a frustrated groan, he sighed. Peeling one olive-skinned hand from the man's face and holding it in his own, Draco murmured, the edge from his voice having gone soft at the other man's clear torment, "I'm not going to let them do that, Harry."

"Why do I get the idea you're about to suggest something I really, really won't like?"

"Because I'm holding your hand and that rarely implies good news?" Draco suggested lightly, raising a brow. The Gryffindor stayed quiet, moving to lean against the counter with his free elbow, propping his chin up.

The blonde leaned in, kissing him, and Harry let him for a moment, but pulled away, holding his face millimeters from his own. "And now you're kissing me instead of answering my question, which really doesn't help."

"It doesn't, hmm?" Draco whispered, stealing another kiss, "I think I beg to differ."

There was a knock on the door, and Harry rose to his feet, the moment having passed by the time takeaway and money had exchanged hands. Silence followed them still, as Harry busied himself by setting out the containers on the counter next to him.

Neither of them were very hungry anymore, but eating seemed to be much easier than talking at that point.

"It's not common knowledge that the Manor has been given to you yet. Unless Oliver's managed to screw that up already, but I doubt it. I think you should stay there. The kids probably need the extra help, and you'll be busy there most of the time anyway. If there's anyone who wants to hound you, they won't be able to get to you there."

The other man let the words sink in, chewing very slowly. His body had tensed, and Draco saw it. Harry's hands had clenched around the spoon he was using, his shoulders rose slightly, but his eyes refused to meet his own.

"You hate the spotlight, Harry. You remember the Wizarding Tournament—all the rumors. It's going to be like that again, unless you stay away from it until it dies down."

The Gryffindor chose not to mention how much part Draco had taken part in the rumors at the time, and how painfully ironic it was that, in a way, he was part of it again, however unintentionally. "It won't die down. This is a story they'll be after for ages, and what about you? Do you really expect me to leave you here alone to deal with them? It's not safe—the publicity will be worse for you than me, and you know it."

The pale man shrugged. "I can handle that part. I'm not staying here, though."

Harry looked at him quizzically. "Where exactly are you going to stay?"

"Granger and Weasley might take some convincing, but I'll be working with him most of the time, and we can work there if we need to. No one knows it's him I'm working with, and they know we hated each other in school. They won't think to try to find me there."

Leaning back, the man stared at him in silence. "You're not really asking me _if_ I want to do this, are you?"

Draco half-shrugged, looking away. "It's more like I'm asking you to do it."

"You've already decided, then? What, it was that easy—let's just break up because _you _don't want to face the Ministry?" he asked bitterly, anger rising up in his emerald eyes.

The man's silver eyes suddenly flickered to his, flaring with a dangerous amount of irritation, "I never said I was breaking up with you. I'm doing this because I'm trying to protect _you, _you daft arsehole."

"It sure bloody seems like it, if you're planning on not seeing me for however long this thing lasts!" Harry's voice rose, and he hated himself for getting so upset, but the anger was simply too much.

"I also never said I wouldn't," stated Draco flatly, "But we both knew this would keep us busy."

"No, _you _knew that. I don't know if you forgot about this part, but _you _were the one who set this whole thing in motion without asking me. Now you want me to simply go along with everything you say? Well, I bloody won't. You either let me stay with you and we deal with everything as it comes, or you leave and it's over." It came out in a rush, following the deep red that was blooming across Harry's olive skin. A wave of panic hit him as he realized what he'd said, but by that point it was too late—Draco was staring at him with the cold sort of venom that always accompanied their encounters at school.

Harry didn't think he'd see it again.

"I do expect," said the blonde softly, his tone somehow still filled with rage despite its volume, "you will want the bed to yourself then. Weasley and I have an early morning tomorrow anyway, so I will stay there."

"Draco—"

His silver eyes cut into his own, a strange smile of disbelief twisting the blonde man's features as he did so. "Don't insult me further by trying to apologize, Potter." He disappeared down the hallway, and within the shadows, allowed the chill to rush through him, his hands shaking as he hastily grabbed the things he would need for the next day. The sound of footsteps behind him and a hand on his shoulder made him freeze.

"Don't leave, Draco."

The blonde man felt his eyes close shut at the request. It was all so painfully cliché. "You didn't mean it, right?" he added venomously, "Heat of the moment, and all that rot?" The wizard turned around, sneering at him.

"You forgot the 'I love you' part," the other man supplied, unwavering in his tone but tensing as he answered.

"As well as the 'too quick to assume, headstrong arsehole' bit." Draco muttered after a moment.

Harry took a step closer, putting one hand on the slender man's waist, "Too thick for his own good?"

Dropping the clothes in his hands, he muttered, "For Merlin's sake, Potter, it is too late to shag," but came closer anyway.

"I'll make extra coffee," the raven-haired man said, and Draco kissed him for it.

∷**64∷**

Waking up to an irritating knock on the door, Draco muffled his groan by rolling into his pillow. The dark-haired man beside him made no move to indicate that he'd even heard it, and after a moment or two, he shook him awake.

"You're supposed to be making coffee right now," he informed the bleary-eyed man, as he pulled on a pair of boxers, "so get to it whilst I scar Weasley for life."

The Auror knocked on the door again, getting more and more impatient with every passing moment. Malfoy answered the door, his silver hair askew and what seemed to be more than one bruise on his neck.

"Use a charm on those, I doubt the Ministry will appreciate them," Ron muttered in embarrassment, stepping inside the flat quickly.

Draco turned around to see Harry sniffing at one of the takeaway containers on the counter, and pointed at him in warning. "Don't you dare, Potter. The last thing I need is for you to get food poisoning."

"But I'm hungry," said the green-eyed man, "and we've got to leave in five minutes."

"Plenty of time, then." He turned back to Ron, who seemed to be trying to disappear into the wall. When the Auror would get used to the idea that two men dating would indeed have sex was beyond him, but he ignored it and barked out, "Weasley, go to a shop and get a few bagels or something,"

"Please," added in Harry hastily, with an apologetic smile, "I'll pay you back and have him ready when you get here."

Ron rolled his eyes, deciding it was far too early to deal with Draco's penchant for drama. "I want some of that coffee, by the way," he called back, before disappearing.

It was rare that Draco Malfoy took less than an hour to get ready, but upon much persistence on Harry's part, he was dressed and applying the necessary glamour charms in the bathroom when Ron arrived. The ginger-haired main handed him a poppyseed bagel, taking one with raisins for himself. "Don't go into detail, but what exactly happened last night?" he asked around a mouthful of food.

"Harry broke up with me," Draco said, stepping into the kitchen and grabbing the paper bag beside the Auror, privately surprised to see that a blueberry bagel awaited him, "for about five seconds. I'm moving in with you, by the way."

"This was never discussed," said Ron wearily, looking sideways at Harry, who was holding out two thermoses, "But I have the feeling you and Hermione would outvote me."

"He'll explain," said the green-eyed man, "But there's a reason you're my best mate."

"Yeah, I'll room with your annoying boyfriend _and _buy you breakfast," muttered Ron, who was watching Draco put on the invisibility cloak. He disappeared, but his drawling commentary did not.

"I'm hurt, Weasley—I thought we were getting to be friends."

"Don't hex each other," said Harry mildly, giving them both a short wave.

"I'll make no promises," said Ron, and the sound of disapparation filled the room.

The Gryffindor found himself wondering how Ron's night went, as he suspected he had shared similar news with Hermione. He then remembered he would be seeing her that day, and cursed to himself under as his breath as he began to get ready. He'd never been late for work until Draco moved in with him.

At forty-five minutes past nine, he got to the Centre, pausing to look at his messy hair in the mirror, where he saw a purple mark beneath his jawline.

"For Merlin's sake," he muttered, stepping outside. Hastily applying a glamour charm without a mirror, outside in a parking lot, was strange enough, but the dark-haired man that was watching him didn't remark on it.

"I suppose I'll see you inside then, Harry, eh?" asked Oliver, whose amusement was more than irritating.

"I suppose so," he muttered, and sighed as he left. He remembered Draco's words to him the night before, and shook his head. He needed more coffee before dealing with the man who could easily leave them in a precarious situation, and took the moment to lean against the building wall, watching the cars go by.

Peace, apparently, was not on the agenda—Hermione stuck her head out and said, "Harry! I need to talk to you, it's important."

At that, the wizard gave up and called defeat, heading inside to hear the sounds of Oliver's voice. It would be a long day.


	25. Chapter 24

∷**65∷**

"Harry! You're here!"

The excited greeting made him rethink about the possibility of the day turning out to be a good one—he was accustomed to a large greeting.

And then he heard the next remark. "Mr. Wood! Harry's here! Can I go on the broom first, _please?" _

"Oh, brilliant," sighed Harry, who searched the room for Hermione. If she wanted to discuss the hearing, they likely wouldn't have time that day. The witch appeared beside him, looking more frazzled than she usually did, and said, "You need to talk to him, Harry. He's got the team lined up outside with _brooms." _

He noticed how neatly the room seemed to be lined up with kids—he spied Connor in the corner, who wasn't immune to the exciting idea of flying with a Quidditch player.

"Er, Oliver, I need to speak to you for a moment," he said, his hand raised, feeling the stares of everyone else on him.

When the man came over to join him in one of the cluttered classrooms, shutting the door behind him, he felt the familiar tension that only Oliver seemed to elicit. "Look, I really don't think it's a good idea to be moving this fast. I mean, Hermione hasn't seen the Manor yet either, and I want to be sure their safety is in mind when we do move. Maybe we can try the flying when they've gotten there, but I don't think it's practical in terms of transportation—"

"Hermione saw it this morning," Oliver said abruptly, "and flying will be fine, we'll get them far enough from—"

"From _London _to the _Malfoy Manor_?" snapped Harry, "Are you insane?"

Oliver visibly bristled, "We weren't going to fly there the _whole _way, just take them out for a spin,"

"Then I see no reason in why it can't wait," Harry said firmly, "We simply have too many things to consider in a move like this, theatrics should be the least of your worries."

The man paused for a moment, looking at him. "I can't say I agree, but it is your call, Harry. What do you want to do?"

The green-eyed man sighed. Maybe today wouldn't be so difficult after all. "Regular transportation is safest, because I don't know how safe magical transportation is. If we can borrow a bus, I think that'd be best—it'd be easier to keep an eye on everyone. Wiltshire isn't too far, but I'm not sure how close we can get to the Manor in it."

"A bus?" Oliver echoed, furrowing his brows, "I reckon we could try the Knight Bus, see if they'll do a special trip."

Harry thought it was the smartest thing he'd heard Oliver Wood say in a long time.

∷**66∷**

With their plans finally underway, Harry and Hermione found themselves busy with preparations for their two-hour trip to Wiltshire. Though the Knight Bus didn't typically take appointments, Hermione managed to schedule a pick-up for later that week. It often left Harry working until later in the evening, and though Pansy's trial was not until the next week, Draco steadfastly held to his belief that he move into the renovated Manor as soon as possible.

Harry tried to push it off for as long as he could, but Draco had grown accustomed to his excuses and showed up Wednesday night, the night before the official move, at the Centre, taking him on an impromptu excursion. "I'm treating you to dinner," he said, "and it's impolite to say no."

He didn't say, of course, that the dinner would be in the Manor, nor did he mention the small fact that he'd taken the liberty of making up a room for him. Predictably, it wasn't the surprise he had been expecting.

Harry looked at the bedroom without feigning cheer. It really only had the necessary things for one night—a bed, a change of clothes, and toiletries—but it was a sign of a change he wasn't looking forward to.

"I'll stay with you tonight if you do," Malfoy finally suggested after a long silence.

"Fine," Harry murmured, "but I hope you know that doesn't mean I think this is a good idea. I don't know how you got Ron to let you stay there."

"Trust me, you've made that clear, and you've forgotten how convincing Granger can be," said the slender man, shaking his head. Holding his hand out and clasping it with the other's, he led him out into the dining hall, where the magnificent black oak had been replaced with a mahogany dining set.

Harry's mood had been lightened somewhat when he saw the effort that had been put into the meal—candles were lit and dishes set out. He realized, in that moment, how little they had seen each other over the last few days—and he felt bad for acting like such a prat earlier.

"I can still get them to change some things, you know," said the wizard, looking at the Manor's décor again, "It does sort of look like a Gryffindor threw up over it."

The man shrugged, appearing to be unruffled by the idea. "It's not my place anymore, Harry. Don't worry about it."

Knowing it bothered him more than he let on, Harry resolved to speak to Oliver about it tomorrow. Tonight, though—tonight was theirs.

"Connor was asking about you again, today. If I stay here it means you're required to visit us both," said Harry lightly, with a smile.

"I think that can be arranged, Potter," drawled the blonde, "provided Weasley and Granger don't keep me on a curfew."

"Sneaking out shouldn't be too hard, I'll lend you my invisibility cloak. Ron sleeps like a rock, anyway."

"How about sneaking _in?" _asked the Slytherin with a smirk.

"Depends," Harry said thoughtfully, a smirk playing on his own lips, "on whether or not you intend on staying the night."

"I suppose you'll have to convince me."

"I think that can be arranged, Malfoy," responded the Gryffindor, who felt markedly better about their temporary living situation. Harry supposed Draco could convince him to do nearly anything—but he would never tell the Slytherin that.

He'd never let it go.

∷**67∷ **

Scrimgeour greeted Ron and Draco with considerable cheer the next day. He'd been in a foul mood upon finding out that the soonest Pansy's trial could occur was next week, and spent a considerable amount of time implying just how much Draco should be preparing for it by stopping by the office numerous times to 'check on them'.

Today, however, he remarked, "I've just heard from the development team down at the Centre. Apparently they're moving tonight, so we can begin our investigations tomorrow!"

Draco wished very much to correct the man's statement—that there was no team, Harry and Hermione were doing most of the work, and then begin a critical commentary on just how wrong it was that they had to move at night with a group of kids prone to breaking light fixtures at slight upsets.

Wisely, however, he knew to keep quiet. The Ministry unfortunately was at an advantage again, having found out about him and Harry's relationship.

Though not much had been said yet, at least in any official capacity, the rumor had gone around quite fast—by the time it got to Ron, the story had been twisted to paint the blonde as a wizard with both the capacity to emotionally manipulate people but also develop brand new spells at the drop of a hat.

The Auror told him to not let it bother him, as they didn't know what they were talking about and that in a few days a new scandal would occur, making him old news. The Slytherin didn't believe him.

"I'll expect a day-to-day report on this, Auror Weasley," reminded the Minister, and though his polite smile didn't waver, Draco saw the twinge of horror in his eyes at the idea of daily paperwork.

After he'd left, the paler man remarked, "And you _wanted _to work here?"

∷**68∷**

With their plans for transportation underway, Harry had a good feeling about the whole ordeal. Though he hadn't planned to move this fast, the Knight Bus was much easier to manage than they'd expected—Oliver had sent some of his teammates down to the Manor to wait as they gathered the last-minute items they needed. Planning for it was crucial, but even Hermione seemed confident in how things were progressing. The kids had been disappointed initially that the flying had been cancelled, but seemed slightly consoled by the fact that it would occur on a later date.

Getting the kids on the bus wasn't a problem—they were all genuinely excited for it, despite how late it was for them. It was about an hour into the trip that it had become an issue—the novelty of an enchanted bus had worn off, and as they had their meals already, there was little entertainment.

Hermione tried a variety of games—"I Spy" wasn't the most fun in the pitch-black of the night, and the group promptly disintegrated when one of the younger girls began throwing a temper tantrum, resulting in a domino effect of howling children.

"Your turn," said the witch, massaging her head.

Stanley Shunpike glared at Harry with pure venom—savior of the Wizarding World or not, there was apparently no excuse for misbehaving children, especially a group of them at midnight.

Harry sighed, envious of Ron and Draco, who were likely asleep at this hour. After talking it over with Ron, Hermione decided she would join Harry and stay there for a few nights until everything was settled. They still needed to find full-time caretakers for the Manor grounds and assistance with its residents, and Hermione worried about the unexpected problems that could come from simply adjusting to a new place. It simply made her feel better, she said, to be there in case anything went wrong.

Harry thought it just meant she didn't think he could handle it without her, but he also was grateful for her help and kept it to himself.

After a tumultuous second hour, they finally arrived at the Manor. Most of the Quidditch members had gone home for the night, but Oliver, Harvey, and his wife had stayed to wait for their arrival. Having a new place to look at, despite how exhausted they were, entailed much more work than they expected—and Connor, characteristically, had snuck off again, which began an uproar of, "If _Connor _doesn't have to go to bed, why do _we _have to?"

"Because Draco won't surprise you tomorrow if you aren't good and do as you're told," interjected a silky voice, "So all of you, get to it."

Oliver was slightly surprised to see the overwhelming excitement that Draco's presence elicited—he had heard that the kids liked him, but privately never believed it until now. They swarmed around him, and the blonde man seemed to genuinely enjoy being there. The way Harry looked at him, however—that was what surprised him the most.

Harry Potter was in love with Draco Malfoy—it was written all over his face.

Oliver had to admit to himself that if the youngest Malfoy could get the whole wizarding world's savior to fall in love with him—well, maybe he had changed, after all.

After Draco had found Connor in the library (which was the first place he had looked—strangely the boy had managed to find it immediately), and after promising to him repeatedly that he would be there the next night on the condition that he get some sleep, the Manor finally settled down in the early hours of morning.

Harry was curled next to him, chin resting against his bare shoulder. "You didn't tell me you'd be coming," he murmured sleepily.

"That _is _the idea of a surprise, Scarhead," teased the other man lightly, "Now shut up and go to sleep."

"Ron doesn't know you're here, does he?"

"Of course not. I don't know how you put up with him—all he ever wants to do is work. Which is strange, considering his academic performance."

"He likes being an Auror."

Draco turned to face the emerald-eyed man, "I came because I thought you'd want to know they're sending us out tomorrow—well, today."

"Wow, they can make haste when they want to." Harry muttered, tensing as he said so.

"I'll be fine, Harry."

"You'd better be," answered the other, "no one else could call me Scarhead and live."

"I'll never waste such exquisite privileges again."

"Good," he sighed, and, upon feeling Draco settle into a more comfortable position beside him, fell to sleep shortly after.


	26. Chapter 25

∷**69∷**

Draco had left many hours before anyone woke up at the Manor, and Harry had risen with him despite the blonde telling him, repeatedly, to go back to bed. He found himself wandering the Manor, a curious sort of awe filling the air as the realization filled him—they had finally done it. _Finally, _hopefully, the Centre could become what it was meant to be—a place of refuge and of new beginnings.

He peeked into the kitchen, where the House Elves greeted him, though he declined breakfast. Shrugging on some clean clothes, Harry decided he would go for a quick walk around the back of the Manor, where Oliver had remarked that there would be a Quidditch field—he didn't doubt _a _field would be there, but with the sun making its way into the sky, pinks and blues tingeing the clouds, it seemed particularly magnificent. The silver hoops shone against the light, the lines on the field fresh and vibrant.

It really _was _a Quidditch field.

Though he'd had his reservations about Oliver's approach to renovating the Manor, and the Ministry's blatant disregard to the technical obligations they agreed to, he had to admit it had turned out looking quite beautifully. When he went back inside, he found Hermione setting places at the table.

"Harry," she whispered, turning to him with the biggest smile he'd ever seen, "Look!" She pointed to the kitchens behind him, where a House Elf was holding the door open and levitating piles of food to the table. In any other situation, she would have made a remark or two about the use of House Elves at all, but in this one, it implied the one thing they had been hoping for all along—that they could use magic again.

"Have you tried using your wand yet?" he asked, hesitant to jump to conclusions—it was simply too good to be true.

The witch took out her wand, pointed it at one of the silver glasses on the table, and said, loudly and clearly, _"Wingardium Leviosa!" _On cue it, hovered neatly above the table.

"What are you _doing?" _asked a familiar voice sleepily, "Because, Mrs. Weasley, it looks like you're crying over a _cup." _

The witch, not having realized she was in the first place, simply began weeping harder, and took Connor into a crushing hug, much to his bewilderment. He looked at Harry as though he thought she'd gone mental, and he explained, "Magic is safe now."

"So Draco can teach me the Stinging Hex you've been telling him not to?" Connor asked slyly, and Hermione swatted his head lightly.

"Of course not," she sniffled, "Now sit down, there's toast if you're hungry."

Harry sat down next to the boy and said, "You know, the Quidditch field looks pretty nice out there. What do you say to a flying lesson or two after everyone's up?"

"Really?" Connor all but shouted, "You'll let us?"

"When everyone's—"

The boy bolted out of his seat, running up the stairs, rousing everyone with one phrase only: _"Everybody get up, it's time for flying lessons!"_

"You _had _to start the day with that," sighed Hermione, the smile, though softer, not leaving her face.

"It _is _a nice Quidditch field," maintained Harry in his defense, and he took a bite of toast.

∷**70∷**

Though sneaking _out _of the house seemed to be fairly easy, sneaking back in when Ron was awake and irritated was next to impossible.

"Don't bother trying to pretend you've been here all night, I already know you left," he muttered crossly, "Now do me a favor and don't say a word until I've finished this coffee, because we have a _long _bloody day."

"Oh, lighten up, Weasel, it's not like the Ministry cares where I sleep at night," responded Malfoy airily, sniffing at the coffeepot for a moment before deciding to get his own mug, "and it's not like _they _offered any help at that hour. Of course, Harry was probably the brilliant mastermind who allowed them to consume sugar after four pm, but regardless…"

The ginger-haired man inwardly groaned, shutting his eyes. "You are not doing me a favor."

"Sure I am," said Draco lightly, "I'm helping wake you up, because it appears you aren't yet. What crawled up your arse and died, anyway?"

The Auror took another sip of his coffee. "The Ministry fire-called. Apparently there was a report of a slender, silver-haired individual leaving the Manor sometime around seven this morning, and that I should check to see if the Draco Malfoy I'm supposed to be partnered with was safe in bed."

Draco frowned. "I'm not sure why you haven't tried to kill me yet—normally you'd have hexed me by now."

"Need you alive and intact for today, don't I?"

The blonde lifted his eyebrows. "The Ministry told you to keep your hexes away from me, didn't they?"

"Okay, _they _need you alive and intact for today," Ron admitted, setting the mug in the sink, "But don't you dare think I'm not going to once we've finished."

"Sure, Weasley—just be sure you don't hex _yourself _this time," said Draco with a smirk, leaving to take a shower.

"Draco bloody Malfoy," muttered Ron to himself, "Of all the bloody gits in England, it had to be him."

The fireplace began to speak loudly, startling him. _"AUROR RONALD WEASLEY," _

He rolled his eyes, padding over to it, "Look, it's fine, Malfoy's just arrived and—"

"_THERE HAS BEEN AN ESCAPE FROM AZKABAN. I REPEAT, A PRISONER BY THE NAME OF PANSY PARKINSON HAS ESCAPED FROM—" _

"Fucking brilliant," said Ron, rushing up the stairs and pounding on the door, "Malfoy, we have a slight problem."

"How slight?" called out the blonde, "I'm certain it can wait another five minutes, my hair hasn't finished."

"Pansy's escaped, and I reckon the Ministry's got some opinions on how to handle the matter, so can you _hurry _up?"

If Harry had been impressed at being able to be ready in five minutes, he would have been doubly impressed by the fact that the blonde had managed to exit the room in mere seconds completely clothed—granted, his hair was rumpled and clothes wrinkled, but it was the effort that counted.

"Forget the Ministry. You go to the Manor, I'll go to the Centre, we'll meet at the Ministry, all right?"

Ron shook his head. "There's no way I can let you go alone."

"Scrimgeour wanted to start investigations today, remember? There's probably a bunch of Aurors there already."

The ginger-haired man paused, and them murmured, "Hermione's at the Manor too," he sighed, and said, "Look, just wait here for a few minutes while I go and check on them, and we can go to the Centre together. Can you do that?"

The silver-haired man rolled his eyes. "Fine, Weasley, but be quick about it."

The Auror gave him another stern look, but disappeared without another word.

At that, the blonde departed for the Centre. It was strange to see it empty—well, mostly. Boxes still filled some of the rooms, likely a product of Oliver's shoddy organization when it came to moving. The blonde man heard a creak, and looked to the back entrance, where the door swung open. It was eerily quiet here—nothing like the place that he'd grown to love.

He walked past the threshold and saw the safehouse again—something he wasn't sure he would. The wind whipped around him, making the door behind him open and shut wildly. Pushing through, he paused at the door, remembering the difficulty he'd had in getting inside before, but found it unlocked.

Inside, the bookshelves stayed intact, with one exception—the spines, previously having been blank, each bore a name. He spied one with Blaise's initial and surname, his finger resting against the spine before his eye caught another—_D. L. Malfoy. _What had gotten him into this mess to begin with. Peering at it with great distaste, he took it from the shelf. "I never liked you," he informed the book candidly.

Draco heard the door beside him open, and saw Pansy's face and her outstretched wand before his head and shoulders began to scream in pain, the sky above roiling in a myriad of shapes as he gasped for breath.

He smelled something familiar, but couldn't place it immediately—his stomach roiled as it hit him again, and the man remembered.

Burning flesh.

The wizard felt his hand wrap around the book beside him again, as though it would be enough to shield him against the Unforgivable cast his way.

∷**71∷**

Ron barely registered the excitement on everyone's faces as he glanced at Harry, who had answered the door to his impatient knocking. "Is Hermione here too?"

"Ronald?" she said quizzically, smiling as she tried to pull him inside. The Auror leaned in, aware of their audience.

He whispered, "Tell them I stopped by to say hello or something. But whatever you do, don't let _anyone _outside—do you hear me? No one. Pansy Parkinson's escaped."

Harry's veins grew cold at the sound of her name. "Where's Draco, Ron?"

"At the house…" the Auror trailed off hesitantly, realizing that aside from using binding of some sort, it was nearly impossible to ever get him to actually wait. The Slytherin had likely gone off on his own again.

"Harry," interjected Hermione, but he peeled her hand off and disappeared before another word could be uttered.

"Stay here, lock the doors, and have Oliver stay in the main room with you," commanded the wizard quietly, "And don't worry," he added, kissing her on the cheek before following his friend.

At the Centre was a sight he didn't expect—smoke billowed angrily into the sky, the fire roaring loudly as it devoured the small dwelling and the available greenery around it. It wasn't as though he'd doubted Draco's claim of the safehouse, but seeing it now, after all the time he'd spent here, up in flames, it was still a surprise.

A loud, pained howling distracted him from his thoughts, and the first thing that crossed his mind was Harry—but upon sprinting toward the sound, he realized it wasn't Harry. Dragging herself across the threshold was Pansy Parkinson, the sounds escaping her throat animalistic and guttural. She raised her arm as though she had her wand, as though not realizing how close the fire was to consuming her.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _She shouted, the burst of green light ripping forth, striking through the heat. Ron rolled out of its way easily, but hardly expected the force that sent him flying backwards, through the air, a loud _pop _echoing in his head. The shock registered quickly after in his body, and he saw Harry leaning above him.

He heard his voice before succumbing entirely—_"…on their way."_

After the medical personnel had been summoned, the Aurors began making their way through the sky, and soon claimed the area as their own. One stopped to make certain a Mediwizard had been contacted, but the rest swarmed to put the fire out.

Harry felt himself come closer, but one of the Aurors pushed him back, telling him he needed to stay with Ron.

"I need to find Draco," he said, pushing forward again. The Auror held him back.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter. Stay with Auror Weasley."

Harry stopped, mutely watching as the man turned and sprinted toward the fire, as he heard the shouting between them. The words, _"No survivors," _echoed around him.

If the Mediwizard recognized him, he didn't make it apparent, because upon transport, it was as though he didn't exist; at the familiar sight of St. Mungo's, he was handed off to a Healer, who took one look at him, and with a sharp intake of breath, rattled off a list of things she would need.

Harry took a step back, his hands rising to his head as he tried to process what had just happened.

His best mate was in a room somewhere, and potentially severely injured.

He'd watched Pansy Parkinson die.

There was a high likelihood that Draco had been in that blast.

He felt himself tip forward, retching on the floor, the nurse at the station beside him rushing forward to try and help. She handed him a towel, and Harry supposed had he been in any other situation, he would have felt embarrassed to have all of these people staring at him with tears streaming down his face, but not right now.

Some time later, a Healer came out to get him after he had been waiting—numbness had settled in. "He's going to be okay. He's a bit banged up, but with proper rest and potions, he should be up and about in no time."

"Someone should contact his wife." Harry said flatly, "She doesn't know he's here." There was a short pause as the wizard stopped and visibly swallowed the lump in his throat, "and someone needs to know I'm looking for Draco Malfoy."

The Healer, taking in the man's familiar green eyes and scar, said, "I can take you back and you can stay with him while I get someone out to contact her, and I'll let the nurse know about him," she said with a forced smile.

When she arrived, Hermione was in tears again, though this time it was pain that had caused them instead of happiness. She saw Ron, and immediately went to his side, taking his hand. After a moment she looked around, as though expecting there to be another person.

"They said Draco was here. Where is he, Harry?"

Hermione never thought she would be able to say that Harry Potter could ever scare her, but the Harry she saw that day did. His green eyes peered into her own with an emptiness she believed had only been possible with magic until that point.

"Harry," came the broken whisper, almost pleading, and she opened he mouth to say more but her throat had closed up from pain erupting in her chest at the implication of that silence. She felt her heart breaking, a visceral wound, and in that moment she realized that, she, too, had loved Draco Malfoy.

∷**72∷**

Michael Corner came into work that day expecting a certain amount of stress, because it was the nature of his job. He didn't expect the familiar faces that day, which always made them more difficult—Pansy Parkinson, Ronald Weasley. Pansy he had to announce dead-on-arrival, though that wasn't a surprise to anyone.

He sifted through the rest of the charts and took Ron's, deciding to pay him a visit before starting his rounds.

It wasn't the wisest of decisions. Hermione was sitting beside him, holding his hand, looking exhausted. The green-eyed man standing next to her looked at him stonily.

"Have you found him yet?"

Michael froze. "Who?"

"_Draco fucking Malfoy!" _snapped Harry, leaping to his feet as blood rushed to his face, "Do you people not fucking talk to each other?"

"Harry—" Hermione began timidly.

"Don't, Hermione. Just fucking don't," he snarled, the anger rippling off of him, searing through the Healer as he backed away.

"I'll see what information I can find, Harry, okay? Take a seat and I'll look it up right away."

It didn't seem to soothe the wizard at all, but he didn't take any steps forward. People peered into the hallways from their respective rooms, curious about the outburst.

Michael went to the station at front and said, "Draco Malfoy. I have someone who's been looking for him."

"I heard," responded the woman, "Already checked. Wherever he is, he's not here."

"Are they still bringing people in from this incident?" asked Michael.

"Maybe. Apparently there's been a series of blasts all over the country, the Muggles are calling it terrorist attacks." It wasn't news that he had wanted to be in charge of, and upon its deliverance he found himself thankful for Hermione's presence.

"You'll be the first to know, Harry, as soon as I find out anything." The wizard's gaze met his own briefly, before he looked away, "I promise. We will find him."

"I'll hold you to that, Corner," said the dark-haired man seriously. He simply nodded and stepped away.

Hermione looked at her friend again, and felt the hand around her own tighten. Her heart leapt at the sight of her husband opening her eyes, though she felt very guilty for it.

"'Arry here too?" he murmured.

"Yeah, I'm here, mate," came the familiar voice.

"You saved my life, you know." The Auror looked at him, wanting to say, _I'm sorry I was fucking stupid and couldn't save Draco's, _but he didn't think it would have helped.

"It's what best mates do," was Harry's answer, as he forced a wobbly smile on his face.

"You don't have to stay here," Ron said, "If you need to go, you can."

The man watched as Hermione's hand tightened around her husband's. It was a slight movement, but another reminder of what he _wouldn't _be able to do with Draco again, and he wasn't certain he could handle watching it anymore, as much as he loved his friends.

"I think I'm going to check into the place across the street, actually," he lied, "You'll be able to find me if you need to."

"Do you need some money?" asked Hermione, fumbling around for her purse.

"No, thanks, I have it handled." The bespectacled man turned and left the room before she ceased her fidgeting.

"He's going to look for him," sighed the witch, feeling tears well up in her eyes again.

Ron tried to pull her closer, ignoring the pain in his body as he did so. He didn't mention it was exactly why he had offered the chance for Harry to leave.

Someone needed to look for Draco, after all.

∷**73∷**

Harry was surprised to see that it was nighttime upon leaving the hospital. Somehow it didn't seem possible to him that so much time had passed. He walked past the motel he told his friends he would be at and apparated to the street across from the Centre, wishing he'd had the foresight to grab his invisibility cloak before stopping there.

But he wasn't certain he could have handled stopping at their old flat, anyway—not with Draco lurking everywhere there.

He supposed, though, that the blonde was lurking everywhere—it was love, after all, the damned disease.

Slipping in through the front, he tiptoed past the classrooms, searching for the familiar head of silver hair that tormented him. He paused for a moment as a floorboard let out a long creak, but heard nothing come for him.

The smell of smoke and fire was thick, even at the top floor of the centre. He paused in each of the old bedrooms, in the bathrooms—the places Draco had started with when he first came here.

The kitchens were just as bare. He spied a mouse skitter across the floor, squeaking in fear as he walked past.

Harry reckoned that if the Ministry was half-good for anything, it was to sweep a crime scene fairly thoroughly. Stepping outside and taking the moment to notice how different the field looked, charred and skeletal, he realized that the safehouse was visible now. To him, it simply looked like a small hut that had caught fire, and yet it was so much more. There was ash on the ground, littering it like snow.

The smell of burnt flesh was strong as he came closer. Stepping onto the part of the foundation that seemed most secure, the wizard found himself trying to picture what had happened—most of what had been inside the structure had either been destroyed or removed. All he saw was the gutted shell of an artifact.

If he thought he would find any sign of Draco Malfoy that night, it wouldn't be there. He wasn't sure if he thought he'd actually find anything, but he left feeling curiously flat. As though it was simply too exhausting to feel or know very much other than what was rational _to _feel in that particular context.

He found himself in front of their flat, and entered, though part of him—the logical part of him—told him to leave. The foolish part of him persevered and Harry was overwhelmed, at first sight, of the small things that were inarguably Draco—the stupid umbrella by the door they never used because by the time they were _out, _it was still sitting there, the empty living room, because he hated guests, the silly little lion magnet he had gotten at a whim at the store and sat perched on the counter because it didn't actually stick to anything—all of it sank its teeth into him.

This was where he found signs of Draco, and though it pained him to be around it, it was comforting in a way, too. Sinking to his knees, he let the pain tear into him.

Harry thought he'd rather feel pain than nothing at all.


	27. Chapter 26

∷**74∷**

It was not a kind return that greeted him when he awoke—Draco found himself aching all over, blood staining his hand. He gingerly touched his forehead, feeling a wound there that burned in indignation as he did so. He looked up, seeing the sky and smelling the smoke around him, and its suffocating grip around his chest.

Hoisting his body around to lie on his belly, he saw flames in front of him, singing his hair, the blast of heat enough to feel its burn on his skin. It dawned on him, then, that he was watching the safehouse burn, the blast having sent him sailing through the air behind it.

The sound of voices greeted his ears, and he crawled forward—an Auror strode toward him, nearly stepping on hands as he did so. "Draco Malfoy?" he said, his voice filled of urgency, "We'll get you somewhere to have you treated. Come with me."

If the wizard had any qualms about the idea, it wasn't as though he had much choice—the feeling of apparation caused his stomach to roil in protest, despite the short trip.

A nurse rushed toward him, leading him to a cot in a room he didn't recognize; she told him to lie back as she went to get the Healer. He turned his head to look at the Auror who had brought him there, the words crawling out roughly, his mouth feeling dry as he spoke.

"You need to tell Harry I'm here." The Auror nodded at him, motioning for him to lie back again, and Draco whispered, "Please."

"I'll get it taken care of, Mr. Malfoy."

A short, stoutly man in Healer attire came into the room. With is presence came observance of the surroundings—wherever he was, it wasn't Mungo's. It looked more like a hospital wing for mild cases—like the one at Hogwarts. Draco certainly didn't _feel _like a mild case, the way his whole body was screaming at him.

The short man, beady-eyed with a frown, eyed him suspiciously. Two vials were in his hand—he thrust them out, commanding, "Take these. It'll help with some of the pain. They're not as strong as you'd like, I imagine, but we need you alert. I'll have the nurse come by and patch up your head."

Feeling as though he really had little choice, and too bewildered and exhausted to argue, he took the vials obediently, swallowing one with a grimace. The other felt tasteless going down, and it struck him as odd. The nurse was holding some cream in her hand, wiping at his head gently to clean the ashes and other debris; it stung a bit as she applied it, though she didn't seem to notice how he had flinched.

In the doorway was the Auror and the Healer, looking serious as they spoke—the Auror, a sandy-haired man with hazel eyes and what seemed to be a perpetual frown, wasn't one he recognized. He'd seen some of the Aurors from a distance when he worked with Ron at the Ministry, though he supposed he couldn't possibly have met them all.

The pain potion sent a pleasant wave of warmth through his body, dulling some of the sharper aches in his skull and alongside his back, though it didn't rid of them all. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, all that had happened catching up to him. Though sleep seemed ready to claim him, the nurse was adamant—she tapped his shoulder, ignoring the bleary-eyed and disdainful stare that resulted.

"You can't sleep right now, Mr. Malfoy. Auror Timmins will be here shortly, and once we've wrapped that up, you can rest."

Auror Timmins—now that was a name he recognized. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice still raspy.

"You're in the Ministry's personal hospital wing. Don't worry, you'll be safe here."

The second vial that had struck him as odd suddenly made sense—it wasn't a pain potion, it was Veritaserum. The Auror had brought him there for questioning.

He looked at the man reproachfully as he greeted Timmins and allowed him through the doorway—he ignored it.

"We'll be fine here. You may go," said the older man dismissively, and he took a seat at the chair beside him. He looked at Draco. "I just have a few questions."

"I'm sure," spat out the blonde angrily, heat rising to his cheeks.

"Where where you last night between the hours of 12:30 am and 4 am?"

"I was at Weasley's until one, and at the Manor until six. You can bloody well check with everyone was there—there's plenty of people who saw me." He might had have had to tell the truth, but damned well didn't have to be passive about it.

"Did you have any contact with Pansy Parkinson between those hours?"

His steely glare didn't seem to bother the Auror. "No, I did not."

"Why did you go to the centre alone, knowing it was potentially unsafe to do so?"

"Because the people that work for you tend to be incompetent buffoons who consistenly underestimate the abilities of the people you're supposed to protect the Wizarding community from, and I wanted to get to her before she got to anyone else."

"Did you, at any time, aid her or any accomplices in her escape from Azkaban?"

Draco sneered, the words rolling off his tongue with venom, "No, I did not."

Timmins shifted in his seat, the red bloom of frustration finally registering on his features. He was a man with a receding hairline; the light shone off of his balding skin. Sweat showed on his face, and the blonde realized there was soot under his nails. The man had been there, at the centre.

Despite knowing there were people who would want to know he was safe, despite knowing delaying real medical care could result in more severe injuries—he had taken the Slytherin here. It filled him with a rage his body was too weak to do anything with except tremble.

Timmins ignored it. "Do you know anyone who could have aided in her escape?"

His answer surprised them both—he had barely remembered the Animagus that Pansy had been living with until now. "There was an Auror named Rupert. Pansy said he was her protective detail, because she was a witness for the trials. He's an Animagus—he can turn into a cat."

"There isn't anyone here by that name, or any registered Animagus we know of that works here." Despite this, the man seemed to actually consider the information, which was more than he had done before—usually he just stared at Draco with a mixture of disbelief and resentment.

A wave of realization settled on the older man's face after a long moment of silence. "There _was _an Auror in training here by that name—he wasn't suited for the job, clumsy and arrogant, didn't take orders well. We sent him to a different department—the Centaur office."

The blonde man snorted. If there was any better ways to make enemies with the ability to connive others into letting madwomen loose, he couldn't think of one. "Now that I have done all your work for you, may I leave?" he snapped.

Timmins looked indignant at the suggestion. "I think it's best that you stay here until you're well enough to leave. It's much safer—we haven't found Parkinson yet."

"I want to be looked at by a proper Healer, not the first person you managed to find off the street with borderline passing levels of achievement," he snapped, "and I bloody well would hope you realize the greater implications of what you're doing—holding someone against their will."

"We can certainly request that a Healer come from St. Mungo's for treatment. The Ministry has a duty to protect those that work for them." The response came with air of superiority—the man's eyes regarded him with an infuriating arrogance.

"Especially when they're an ex-Death Eater, right?"

The Auror rose to his feet, ignoring the question, a small smile on his face. It was clear he enjoyed the position of power he was in—the Slytherin didn't know of his change in authority when Ronald Weasley was promoted.

"I'll get that Healer for you, Mr. Malfoy—but you aren't leaving. I'll have an Auror stationed outside for you if you need anything." The man's remark twisted his smile into one of further belittlement.

∷**75∷**

Michael Corner was the one of the Healers on-call at St. Mungo's when Auror Timmins came in, but not the one to receive the request for off-site treatment. The one he had approached, however, knew of Harry Potter's outburst earlier and immediately went to him.

"They've found him, Healer Corner—Draco Malfoy, he's alive. They need you to see him, but I thought you would want to go."

The Healer wasted no time—he grabbed the chart that had Draco's previous information from his time there a few months earlier, and marched over to Auror Timmins. "This man needs to be here. I don't know where you're keeping him, but he hasn't fully recovered from his last ordeal, and as the Healer on his case, I demand that you escort him here so that he may be treated properly."

The Auror reared back slightly, not expecting to find such a confrontation, and turned red again. "I-I wasn't aware…"

"I'll send a Mediwizard with you. What's your name?" said Michael coldly, making it clear his acquiescence wasn't enough to excuse him from his behavior.

"Auror Timmins," answered the man, feeling appropriately chastised.

"I'll remember that." He responded, making sure his warning was clear—he might not have been involved in the legal aspects of case at all, but he had enough authority as a Healer to make a complaint, and he fully intended to.

As the Mediwizard and Auror were sent along their way, in which Draco would arrive soon, he went to where Ron and Hermione were staying.

"They found him, Hermione. He's okay." The Healer ducked his head inside, craning to see if Harry was there. "You need to find Harry—he needs to know."

Hermione burst into tears again, and Ron handed her the tissues again. He'd never seen his wife cry so much in one day before. He made a note to ask for a glass of water—he was certain she was dehydrated at this point.

"I'll find him," she sniffled, "Where would he have gone, Ron? The Manor?"

The ginger-haired man shook his head. "No. If they've found Draco, chances are Harry didn't find him when he looked at the centre. Check his flat—it's the only place he could go to be alone." The witch squeezed his hand, pressing her lips to his forehead. She left St. Mungo's with relief.

Harry seemed surprised to see her there, but with the smile on his face, felt hope crush his heart, nearly making him sick.

"They've found him, Harry. He's okay." She crushed him in a hug, catching him as his knees weakened at the news.

Though a sense of urgency was not unnatural in a place like St. Mungo's, it was particularly strong that night as a witch and very famous wizard rushed in, all but screaming at the attendant, who flinched at the volume, "Draco Malfoy?"

She looked down briefly, and pointed to a room on her left, "It's—"

They disappeared before she could finish.

The woman blinked at the empty space in front of her, the realization of Harry Potter's presence having struck.

Draco was just getting settled on the stretcher, Michael Corner assessing his wounds when the two startled him with their loud entrance. Hermione continued and gave him a hug that may or may not have broken a bone; Harry stopped dead in his tracks and proceeded to gape at him.

"I don't get a hug?" asked the man lightly, raising a brow. The Healer beside him wisely moved out of the way before Harry came closer, and looked at Hermione as to suggest they leave. She paused for a moment, but followed him, the door closing quietly.

"He'll be fine. There's a few torn ligaments and fractures to take care of, but nothing we can't treat. I've given him another pain potion, and I'll get a nurse to bring in some healing potions in a few minutes. He got lucky."

Hermione nodded. "We all did." She turned to go to Ron, but paused in her footsteps. "Thank you, Michael. For everything."

The Healer smiled. "It's my job, you know."

∷**76∷**

"You idiot," Harry whispered, his breath catching as he pulled the pale man close, the scent of smoke and fire stinging his nose, "I thought you were dead,"

"It was—"

The wizard cut him off with a kiss, holding him as though he was afraid to let go, and he was. He was afraid any minute now, he would wake up and find it was a dream. He pulled away for a breath and murmured softly, "I don't care. Tell me later."

Draco stared at him for a moment, his eyes filled with regret—putting Harry though that wasn't something he had ever wanted. He realized that even he had no clue what had happened—that no one really did.

All he knew was that Pansy Parkinson was dead, and that everything that tied them to their obligations for the Ministry was over—and it made him happy. Whether he would find out the true story would come in its own time, but right now, all he wanted was to be with the man who was not doing a very good job at hiding his tears.

He felt wetness on cheeks and realized he was crying, too, the relief was simply too overwhelming. "I love you," he said, and Harry's grip on his hand tightened.

"Can we get those stupid rings now?" Harry asked suddenly, wiping his eyes.

"Only if I pick them out. You have no taste," teased the Slytherin gently, a pinkness blooming across his cheeks.

"That's fine, but I'm picking out the new couch. I'm not going to get any better at cooking, either," Harry warned.

The wizard shrugged, jumping slightly at the pain that occurred. "As long as it's not that ghastly shade of Gryffindor red."

"I can handle that."

Draco smiled. "Me too."


	28. Epilogue

∷**Epilogue∷**

The trend of good news seemed to follow, at least for the most part. At Neville and Ginny's wedding, the couple announced their plans to begin Herbology lessons at the centre for those who were interested. Draco privately thought those who would willingly attend were rare, but he held his tongue. The dynamic between him and Neville had changed considerably since he found out the truth about who had saved him that night, and even Ginny's initial dislike of him seemed to be ebbing away.

The Ministry had faced great scandal after the public found out about Pansy's escape—and the shame was enough for them to offer funding at the newly renovated centre without much persistence on Draco's part. He suspected the strongly worded complaints on Hermione and Michael's part helped. As for Auror Timmins, he had not been fired—Draco's information had saved him from getting sacked. It was a kind fate he didn't deserve, but he was eventually moved to one of the offices in the Magical Creatures' department.

Draco hoped it was the Centaur Office.

Another positive result of the Ministry's scandal was, ironically, its publicity—it had been enough to get more people interested in helping with the centre, and it was running much more efficiently now since magic could be used. Draco continued to work there, now as a Potions teacher rather than a caretaker, and Harry resumed the duties as both a headmaster, of sorts, and a tutor.

Connor appreciated the return to normalcy, and spent as much time with him as he possibly could—despite potions not being his best subject, he maintained an interest in it and they spoke about it frequently.

As for Harry and Draco's own engagement, it had yet to be announced. Their focus was on finding a new house—one with a yard. It was designed to be a surprise, but Draco intended to carry through on his promise to Connor about any new canine counterparts.

"I have an announcement to make," Hermione said suddenly, standing up at the large buffet table during the reception. She looked at Ginny, who had simply stared knowingly back.

"I'm pregnant," she said, and her husband beside her smiled, though he didn't look surprised. A chorus of congratulations and excitement rushed around the table, but Hermione didn't sit down—she continued, "With triplets."

That, it seemed, was a surprise—Ron's face paled, and Harry had to hold him forward, in fears that he would faint.

The Slytherin briefly considered sharing the news of their own engagement, but decided against it. _All in due time, _he thought to himself as he watched Harry embrace his friends, _All in due time._


	29. Author's Request

01/07/12

Dear readers, I have some thanks and a request to make.

I left the Epilogue open-ended for a reason—this could easily have its own sequel, but I've decided against that. Instead what I think I'm going to do is make a compilation of one-shots. This is because, with my schedule, I may not be able to update for months at a time, and as a reader, I often hated the wait for longer stories like this.

Another reason I have decided to do a one-shot compilation is because I want to address some of the questions I was unable to while writing this—elaborating on every detail was simply not possible without digressing from the original plotline entirely.

This is where you, as readers, come in—I would like to know what _you_ want to know more about. What do you want to see more of? What did you dislike? These one-shots are also an opportunity to clarify any confusions in the original text, from either error or simply open-endedness.

I do intend to address adoption in the case of Draco and Connor, but felt it would be best as a separate piece because the story had reached its (technical) end with Pansy's death.

Furthermore, I must thank you as readers for following me through this journey—and I hope to continue with this universe for some time.

All my best,

-B.


End file.
